suffused with transitions...

This week has been suffused with transition: garden plots cleared and nourished, top soil collected and spread, autumn leaf debris discarded in a vernal landfill, fallen acorns scattered in the scrib while new/old music and poetry is rehearsed, refined, and realized in solidarity with our new Afghan neighbors. Magenta buds now frame the large trees of the wetlands as hazy greens and greys try to peek through the still awakening shrubs. And as in nature, so too our wee band of artists, poets, and musicians: with wintertide slowly shifting into spring, our informal January cadre of bi-weekly rhythmic explorers has incrementally ripened into a disciplined core of Eastertide pilgrims hellbent on turning songs to prayer and then back into shouts of joy, lamentation, and trust. We've got Motown and Horace Silver, Springsteen and Foo Fighters as well as Mary Chapin Carpenter, Carrie Newcover, CSN&Y, Creedence, Doobies and a taste of funk. Mary Oliver claims this moment with clarity:

I lift my face to the pale flowers

of the rain. They're soft as linen, 

clean as holy water. Meanwhile,

my dog runs off, noses down packed leaves 

into damp, mysterious tunnels.

He says the smells are rising now

stiff and lively; he says the beasts

are waking up now full of oil,

sleep sweat, tag-ends of dreams. The rain

rubs its shining hands all over me.

My dog returns and barks fiercely, he says

each secret body is the richest advisor,

deep in the black earth such fuming

nuggets of joy! 

We slept late, chatted over tea and toast about the week to come, then went  our separate ways to welcome our respective chores: she sorting piles of who-knows-what in her study while I hauled humus and top soil to the raised garden beds and raked more leaves. Later, we joined together to meet Jesus in our live streaming Eucharist and returned thanks for Mary Magdalene. As I look forward, there's another five days of reclaiming this year's soil from last winter's melee to embrace but it will have to wait on the music and logistics that must take shape and form first. There's a uke class or two, online lessons, and a L'Arche meditation to share as well. As the sun sets, it's time to return thanks for a day of gratitude.

changes to the way we're making music this time around...

Planning and executing this upcoming benefit show has been an exercise is
spiritual discernment and trust. Yes, yes, I know that my spirituality is radically sacramental and intensely incarnational. But of course I view most of prayer as breathing, trusting, waiting, listening, and responding to the world around me with as much compassion and creativity as possible. Without a doubt, I aspire to see reality through a nondual lens. And I got the chance to practice all of this in spades trying to pull this gig together.

Which is not to say that it has been hard. Complicated and fluid would be closer to the truth. What started after Easter as a conversation about celebrating the end of covic with one of my long time singer friends found resonance with my dear wife and partner. In early June, 2021 our families gathered for supper at a local Asian fusion eatery to talk about turning this dream into a deed. It was the first time in 15 months that we were out in public besides being masked for shopping and medical appointments. In our innocence, we anticipated doing an early autumn show and I began recruiting some of my old buddies and local artists - until the new variants shut down all consideration for the fall and winter of 2021. This was in and of itself an important encounter with defered expectations and "hanging loose in the saddle." We knew that sometime it would come to pass, we just had no idea when. We regrouped in November and thought right after Christmas but that, too was optimistic. A degree of patience and focus was essential.

Another reality is that while I look towards "small is holy" in most thngs, I can easily be caught up in creating a "really big sheew" as the late Ed Sullivan was want to say. There is nothing like playing loud, bold, kick-ass rock'n'roll with screaming electric guitars, thundering bass, excellent raucus vocals and crashing drums - and we've done some of that in the past. This time around, however, the music that I was feeling and playing was mostly acoustic. We'll have a few rousing rockers to open and close the show - ROCK in the USA and Times Like These - but mostly our tunes are quieter, gentler, and more intimate. Perhaps Di and Jon's take on Beth Orton's version of "Ooh, Ooh Child" evokes the heart and soul of this event.

Same goes for the type of musicians who are free to join us and the number of players in this gig as well. In the past 15 years there have been times when I created a 15 person ad hoc gospel choir to be a part of the six person guitar army, horns, keyboard and all the rest. For a variety of reasons this year was destined to be different as many of the previous players are booked elsewhere that night. Upon reflection, once we zeroed in on a tentative date, some have had to cancel out while others have joined in but mostly this is going to be shaped and driven by a small house band: three key vocalists, two guitars, drums and bass. Think more Robert Plant and Allison Krause than E Street Band or the Last Waltz.

And dare I say that this time around it's a lot more fun? I'm putting myself out there more as a performer, but that's only part of the energy. My bandmates ALL are groovin' to being back together, playing live music for real people in a grand old hall for a cause we care about: welcoming and supporting Afghan allies who have relocated to our community. There's a LOT of laughter and collegiality in the hope that after this gig we'll create a small forum to keep it going. We want to find new ways to keep making music and caring for the common good. It has something to do with living into the charism of this age: small acts of tenderness shared one heart at a time. My old seminary adviser, Cornel West, said recently that he wanted to be an intellectual, "the way that musicians are."

Because musicians are an extension of the community. They have the same spiritual and cultural properties as the very people that you are connected with organically... like Coltrane. Like Frank Sinatra. He touches our souls. He empowers us. There’s a use and a function in the gifts that he gives that allows us to be more fortified in our living... I want whatever wisdom I have, whatever sense of joy, quest for truth and beauty I have to be filtered directly into the empowerment of people (like a musician) so that sisters and brothers can see more clearly, feel more deeply, and act more courageously before the worms get their bodies.

It's going to be a gas and a joy to see where it all leads. Come on out on Friday, April 29th if you can @ 7 pm. You won't be sorry.

random post-easter ruminations...

Easter was a wonderfully rich time for us this even in the midst of such worldwide suffering. Not only did we feast and celebrate together with beloved family in Brooklyn, but after 10 years of intense written conversations, I had the chance to meet a dear friend in person for tea and treats. The New Testament gospel text for Easter Sunday spoke of being "perplexed, terrified, dismissed as irrelevant, and awed." As the Easter preacher reminded us: our worldview in the 21st century may be very different from lst century Palestine, but we continue to know what is means to be perplexed, terrified, and all the rest." Now we are back at home preparing for our first live gig since November 2019. I am filled with random thoughts and feelings as we settle back into our routine...

+ First, being with our family is ALWAYS soul food. That may seem trite, but as we mostly emerge on the other side of the pandemic I shall never take their presence for granted. These are days we'll never have again - times of rich feasting and conversation, times of play and music with our grandchildren, times of deep listening, love, and vulnerability - so each encounter feels like holy ground. The Easter feast after the Lenten fast was sensual in every way. And to add grace upon grace, our grandson not only sang in the Sunday Eucharist choir, but regaled us with his ukulele version of "La Vie en Rose."

+ Second, we got to meet a person I've corresponded with for over 10 years in person. Face-to-face afternoons have also become holy ground for me - and visiting the Enchanted Garden, hearing "It is Well with My Soul" and "Wayfaring Stranger" on the piano, laughing and lamenting in the same room was nourishing, delightful, and sobering. To be able to look into one another's eyes in the same room makes all the difference in the world. Not in an exaggerated way, mind you, but humbly and with gratitude.

+ Third, we beat the always anticipated but still dreaded April snow and sleet on the way home. I've never liked driving in the snow or the rain, so I give thanks that we left Brooklyn early enough to miss the mess. It is still lightly snowing as I look out on the wetlands. But I am safe and warm inside - with Lucie home from the kennel to boot! 

+ And fourth, as I give myself over to preparing for our Afghan Benefit Music and Poetry gig on April 29th, the ever-changing personnel reminds me that we can never go back to the so-called good old days again. Some of the most onerous aspects of the plague may be receeding in these parts - the NY Times reports that 75% of the Berkshires is FULLY vaccinated including little ones over 5 - but life has changed forever. I may also be making music with some of my oldest and dearest friends - and I am - but not everyone can be present for a variety of reasons and some new/old buddies have joined the parade. They will not and cannot replace artists whom I cherish and will miss in their absence, but our new members are alreadying bringing new, unexpected, and sacred gifts to the table that make this concert unique and blessed. It would be easy to give in to nostalgia, but one of the many lessons from the pandemic is that being fully present to the present is the ONLY way to live these days. So, I am genuinely excited about our new mix and can't wait to put the whole thing together in our first dress rehearsal next Wednesday. The Corrymela Community of Belfast, Ireland puts it like this:

A prayer for Easter morning:
God of unbounded joy,
God of undying love:
women went to a tomb
to tend to the crucified dead.
They came back the first preachers
of resurrection.
As we come back
from this tomb of grief
and begin to live again,
may we proclaim with unbridled joy
what the world is dying to hear:
that death is not the end;
that love remains what is most divine;
and that God continues to live
in the beating heart of our humanity.
Amen.

Last, but not at least, my Sunday afternoon "Small is Holy" reflections and Eucharist will get back on schdule this coming week @ 4 pm on April 24th. The appointed gospel text is always John 20. This yea, instead of giving the doubts of Thomas attention, however, I want to rest awhile in the first verses: 

When it was evening on that day, the first day of the week, and the doors of the house where the disciples had met were locked for fear of the religious authorities Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.” After he said this, he showed them his hands and his side. Then the disciples rejoiced when they saw the Lord. Jesus said to them again, “Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.”When he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, “Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.”

I am not in Ukraine. Nor Afghanistan, Ethiopia, Yemen, Myanmar, or China. I got my second booster yesterday and I am in my safe, warm bubble within the Berkshires. As others hide for their lives, scramble for food, and choose when and how to oppose the forces of darkness all around them, I will be playing music and preparing this year's garden additions. It is not at all fair or just, but it is what it is. And as the 14th century mystic, Meister Eckhart is reputed to have said, "Reality is the will of God - it can always be better - but we must start with what is real." So, I give thanks for the solitude and serenity of my days. I know that to those whom much has been given, much is required. My work, as best I am able to grasp it, has to do with forgiveness and peace-making one heart at a time. It has nothing to do with being ideologically pure or dogmatic. It is NOT about snark, shame, or judgement, just discerning and strengthening our common ground. Period. End of story. Mic drop.

celebrating what unites us one heart at a time.

 My letter to the editor in today's Berkshire Eagle:

Letter: In a world of division, I am struck by what brings us together

Top of Form

Bottom of Form

To the editor: As I write on this day of sacred endings and beginnings — the start of Passover at sunset, Good Friday and the halfway mark of the Ramadan fast — I am struck by the things that unite us rather than myriad divisions that tear us apart. The Eagle's headlines are filled with good news for those who have eyes to see: baby animals at Shaker Village, community renewal with American Rescue Plan resources, the end of student borrowing at Williams College and the start of grants, the continued blessings of the Daniel Pearl scholarship and much more.

This is not to say we don’t face monumental problems. Our nation’s 450-year legacy of racism continues to wound too many of our citizens. Poverty increases while multibillionaires take joyrides into outer space. Mother Earth grieves in agony while we stumble toward making necessary sustainability changes. And forgotten women, men and children of all races are routinely ignored and marginalized so that America’s elite might continue to thrive.

But every day in Pittsfield and all over creation, compassionate people reach out to their neighbors and bring healing one heart at a time. I am grateful to you for documenting their all too often-neglected efforts. For 10 years, I had the privilege of shepherding First Church, Congregational on Park Square — our town’s historical first Anglo faith community. Remember: First Nations people worshiped here long before colonizers arrived.

With some of the most onerous consequences of the pandemic slowly ending, I was invited by my former parish to help organize a musical fundraiser to support the vital work Jewish Family Services of Western Massachusetts is doing on behalf of recently resettled Afghan allies. This, too, is another sign of how we strive to work together beyond our differences. My hope is that people of good will throughout the Berkshires will join us at First Church on Friday, April 29, at 7 p.m. for a “rockin’ evening of music and poetry.” All proceeds will go to JFS in solidarity with our new neighbors. The Jewish Talmud cuts to the chase: "Do not be daunted by the enormity of the world's grief. Do justly now, love mercy now, walk humbly now. You are not obligated to complete the work, but neither are you free to abandon it.” May it be so among us, too.

The Rev. Dr. James Lumsden, Pittsfield

returning thanks for my Lenten lapses...

Seems that even in the most uneventful Lenten fast a glimmer of grace is revealed. To be sure, sometimes I am not attentive and miss the gift completely. Other times, despite whatever fog or funk I happen to be lost in, I catch sight of the light and am able to give thanks. Then there are those moments when I've been on edge in elevated expectation - which is really just another distraction - desiring deeper intimacy with the sacred than is possible for me at this time. All of which is to say, every Lent brings a blessing if I am quiet enough to receive it. This poem by Carrie Newcomer suggests this is true for most of our lives:

So much of what we know
Lives just below the surface.
Half of a tree
Spreads out beneath our feet.
Living simultaneously in two worlds,
Each half informing and nurturing
The whole.
A tree is either and neither
But mostly both.
I am drawn to liminal spaces,
The half-tamed and unruly patch
Where the forest gives way
And my little garden begins.
Where water, air, and light overlap
Becoming mist on the morning pond.
I like to sit on my porch steps, barn jacket and boots
In the last long exhale of the day,
When bats and birds loop in and then out,
One rising to work,
One readying for sleep.
And although the full moon calls the currents,
And the dark moon reminds me
That my best language
Has always emerged out of the silence,
It is in the waxing and waning
Where I most often live,
Neither here nor there,
But simply
On the way.
There are endings and beginnings
One emerging out of the other.
But most days I travel in an ever present
And curious now.
A betwixt and between,
That is almost,
But not quite,
The beautiful,
But not yet.
I’ve been learning to live with what is,
More patient with the process,
To love what is becoming,
And the questions that keep returning.
I am learning to trust
The horizon I walk toward
Is an orientation,
Not a destination.
And that I will keep catching glimpses
Of something great and luminous
From the corner of my eye.
I am learning to live where loss holds fast
And where grief lets loose and unravels.
Where a new kind of knowing can pick up the thread.
Where I can slide palms with a paradox
And nod at the dawn,
As the shadows pull back

And spirit meets bone.

The gift that kept coming to me during this year's Lenten fast was that Lent is both a time when I lift up my intentions of prayer and compassion to the Lord, and, then mostly fail to follow through. Yes, I mean fail. Fail to make much linear or spiritual progress with "praying all ways." Fail to stay on task. Fail to strengthen the compassion within that I'm so eager to share. Even fail to remember what I vowed to accomplish. 

Now let me be clear: failing and missing the mark during Lent is not something new to me, ok? I've been very successful at failing to keep my Lenten fast for decades. The gift in this year's failure was that my distractions, disappointments, and derailments were a part of how Lent is supposed to unfold. Fr. Jim McDermott of America Magazine writes:

A certain sense of failure during Lent is actually a good thing. In part, it reminds us that Lent is not a home renovation show. The primary goal of the season is not self-improvement; we are not here to fix up our own personal backsplash. We are trying to open ourselves to a deeper relationship with our friend and savior, Jesus. Our inability to forgo chocolate or be nicer for six weeks might very well frustrate us (and sometimes others as well). But in Lent, we are not doing those things for their own sake but out of a hope that they will help us to be less walled off from God and others.

So, unlike years past when frustration and shame became the rule of the day as Lent ended and the Triduum approached, I can give thanks to God that my life is vulnerable, open, and incomplete. Grace is NOT about what I can accomplish. It's a blessing freely shared by the source of all love. Today my prayer has included watering and admiring the mystery of how rapidly our pole beans and cucumbers have grown from seeds in less than a week's time. It's been to rake up more of last year's leaves and discover the blue bells and first dafodils of the season showing up in their glory. And connecting with loved ones online - in the US and later tonight in Canada - for a contemplative cleansing ritual in remembrance of Christ's new commandment: Love one another as I have loved you. As a servant. In humble solidarity. Paying attention to the small details of grace all around you. 

Tomorrow, after our L'Arche Stations of the Cross zoom, we'll head to Brooklyn to celebrate the Feast of the Resurrection. Two years ago, at the start of the pandemic, we marked Holy Thursday with our grandchildren by zoom, too. Here's Ms. Anna at 2 washing the feet of her dolls. What a delight...

 

what we need is here...

It is genuinely spring in these hills: red tips are sprouting on countless trees in the wetlands, the grapevine has become maroon while passing patches of green grass rise from within fields of winter brown. The blessings of the equinox are in full view, too. Dozens of birds stop on the still naked lillacs to feast on seed and suet. Peepers by the hundreds fill the night with crazed mating songs. And blue has returned to the sky over the Berkshires after 178 days of New England grey. Visible life is making a come back just in time for Easter.

I have journeyed into, beyond, away from, afraid of, and then back again to the sacred symmetry between the cycles of Mother Earth and the movement of the Christian liturgical seasons in the Northern Hemisphere. There are differences, of course, and nuanced distinctions as well. Still, as the artist, Alana Levandowski, writes in a recent blog post:  "I was chatting today with another "Hildegardner" who was talking about how a Hildegard von Bingen garden has a pagan underlay and a Christian mystical overlay..."

The pagan underlay and mystical overlay is very beautiful to me! What an organic incarnate metaphor. Particularly because we are presently in the eye of another epochal conundrum, I've been spending time with the tension of other threshold times: the tragedy, the greed, but most of all, the beauty of a thing incarnate with more than one expression. For instance, feeling the sensations that arise when spending imaginal time at the Synod of Whitby, sitting with especially those who weathered the threshold/epochal storm poetically, Caedmon the Bard. Christendom heritage has been so hard on "syncretism" but the paschal rhythm and much of what we do is (precisely) the overlay found in our Hildegarden.

My ancient Celtic kin persisted in calling creation God's first act of incarnation. As Pelagius said: "If you want to know the Creator, get to know Creation." We see the essence, mystery, beauty, terror, awe, and rhythm of the Creator in the ebb and flow of nature. That much of what passes for Christianity in the post-industrial West has discarded, banished, and forgotten 1700 years on holistic "syncretism" is part of our current eco-socio-political collapse. I know that when I was living a somewhat disintegrated life as a professional clergy person, paid to strengthen and "grow" the body nummerically rather than nurture the soul, the wisdom of the earth was rarely on my radar. Speaking with my daughter last night at supper about marketing (she is developing a beautiful eco-business recycling) we both agreed that in a culture and economy predicated on more and big, whatever marketing takes place often feels manipulative. Ungrounded even. 

I confessed that often I was in competition with my colleagues rather than solidarity. Our respective congregations expected us to "win" new members - build up the bottom line - and keep our name in public circulation through novelty, creativity, and buzz. It was the equivalent of life after the electric light bulb: with the movement of the sun and moon no longer a consideration, production could go on 24/7 as perpetual illumination at midnight became the norm. So, too the marketing mania of local congregations. Yes, we tipped our hats to the seasons - especially Christmas Eve and Easter Sunday - but not as a way of living into the spirituality of nature's cycles. Rather the seasons became another resource to be exploited for increasing numbers in worship.

After almost 30 years of trying to be at peace with this madness, I had a dream
after Easter in 2008: how was the marketing drive helping me and those who gathered for worship living into "the unforced rhythms of grace" Jesus promised? Eugene Peterson's reworking of St. Matthew 11 had long energized me: Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly. I realized just how tired and worn out I was. Burned out on religion as it was being practiced. So, without permission or discussion, I started a small, quiet, contemplative midday Eucharist every Wednesday during the lunch hour. It was NOT about marketing. It WAS about the unforced rhythms of grace. And it became holy ground for a small circle of friends for the rest of my time in public ministry. Indeed, it became the template for what has emerged during the pandemic: a quiet livestreaming Eucharist grounded and guided by the liturgical and natural seasons of life in these ever-changing hills. I share "Small is Holy" every Sunday evening at 4 pm partly to feed my own soul and stay grounded, partly to share encouragement with a small circle of friends, and partly to quietly celebrate the unforced rhythms of grace in a culture going crazy in its addiction to busyness and growth.

Looking back over this past year I find that we planted forsythia 365 days ago. A few other native shrubs, too. Right now the kale and cucumber seedlings are sprouting in their seed beds. It's time to add compost and top soil to our raised beds - and construct two more after Easter - so that the rest of our seedlings can be transplanted in the soil that has had a consistent week above 50F. This time of the year, in-between winter and the fullness of spring, is close to my heart. It is almost as life-giving to me as is the numinous days of mid-November when the sky is silver, the leaves have escaped, and creation slips slowly into a deep rest not unlike death before resurrection. Now it is the exact opposite as everything around me is just about to burst forth with new life. Wendell Berry gets it right in his poem, "What We Need is Here."

Geese appear high over us,

pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,

as in love or sleep, holds

them to their way, clear

in the ancient faith: what we need

is here. And we pray, not

for new earth or heaven, but to be

quiet in heart, and in eye,

clear. What we need is here.

grateful in the midst of it all...

Everyday is a mind-numbing mix of intense beauty and unspeakable horror. This is neither overstatement nor manipulation. Just the facts, ma'am. In the same hour I can be overwhelmed seeing virtual images of desecrated bodies only to hear the vulnerable beauty of friends in my living room singing close three and four part harmonies 25 minutes later. And this juxtaposition is not unprecidented or extraordinary in my days - probably so for you, too. 

Yesterday, Wednesday, April 6, I awoke refreshed and safe from a deep, satisfying sleep. I returned thanks to God for this privilege and greeted my lover before reading the headlines. After preparing a simple monkish breakfast of tea, toast, and peanut butter I read the revolting news of how Russian troops have tortured, mutilated, raped, and murder Ukrainian civilians. Less than an hour later I was in our local music store that exists as a shell of its former self: empty shelving, no products, minimal instruments alongside a box of used vinyl albums for sale. This once vibrant and thriving local business has been decimated both by the pandemic and the aftershock of supply chain complications. 

Next door, however, a home-grown pizza parlor was nearly filled with unmasked patrons taking in a variety of delicious, handmade goodies. Midday I read an essay about the stupid and cruel realities of PC cancel-culture run amock before heading off to a local elementary school for our bi-weekly ukulele lesson: we played 20 minutes of dodge ball outside (afterall, these young one have been at desks since 8 am and are both sleepy and restless.) We played a few simple chords together in unison and sang "The Wheels on the Bus." Andy and I gave some individual attention to the children struggling to get the correct fingering before I left to meet the pizza delivery person in anticipation of last night's band practice. He's early - good thing I left when I did. Band mates drift in, grab some pizza and beer, swap stories about the ups and downs of their day before we're ready to work hard @ 6:45 pm. For two solid hours we work through fourteen songs - sometimes 2 or 3 times each - changing keys, altering harmonies and rhythms, even passing a lead vocal off to a new/old/beloved friend who has come back to rock the house with us. One day of sorrow and grief that was also filled with generousity and some of the sweetest music I've ever heard (or helped create!)  An essay from GRATEFULNESS.org reminds me that:

It is in the moments when I am suffering most for the world that I realize I can often become incapacitated, looking for life to attend to me rather than turning myself to attend to life. In these times, I have forgotten that carrying a heavy burden of suffering is not the debt I owe a hurting world, nor the way I best prove my care. I have forgotten that it is exactly the pain of a broken heart combined with my belief in healing that offers me the capacity I need in order to be engaged. I have forgotten that when my eyes fill with wonder and my heart with love or joy, I do not betray my concerns for the world — I nourish my capacity to attend to them. Living gratefully supports us to wake up to the gift of a day without denying what is difficult or putting a positive spin on things. Gratefulness does not require that I substitute happiness for the richness and teachings of struggle. It does not ask that I look away from the suffering within and around me in favor of optimism. It does not say that I should have gratitude for everything; it is absurd to imagine that everything in life is worthy of our praise. But gratefulness suggests that everything in life warrants our greatest presence. And presence is precisely what makes us available for perspective and a sense of possibility, the agency of which fuels energy, imagination, and innovation to help us build a more hopeful future.

Apparently I went to sleep thinking about the joy and creativity I experienced making new music with trusted friends who are each excellent musicians. I am humbled that they have chosen to work with me. I am awed that we can do new things together even after having known one another for over 15 years. So, I wasn't surprised when I woke up at 2:30 am thinking about what needed to be added and tweaked to our show scheduled for Friday, April 29? It took me about forty mintues to sort through some options - and then I was ready to crash out again. Author, Kristi Nelson, adds:  Max Lerner’s proclamation that he was ‘neither an optimist nor pessimist, but a possibilist’ has long moved me. Gratefulness allows us to be moved toward possibility, even in the midst of outrage, fear, and grief. This is how I see my days as well: in the possibilist mode - neither optimistic nor pessimistic.

It's rainy now. The trees in the wetlands are just starting to share a hint of color with the rest of us. The birds who live there visit our front porch each morning for a bit of seed and suet. A few pesky but acrobatic squirrels, too. The first Black woman judge has been appointed to the US Supreme Court. The ugly Russian war of aggression in Ukraine rages along with violence in Myanmar, Yemen, and Ethiopia. Tomorrow the L'Arche Ottawa community gathers for prayer and meetings - and then we'll feast with beloved children in Northhampton on Indian fare. I pray never to take the joys or the pain for granted.

When the realities of violence, greed, racism, economic instability, or climate change get taken for granted, it is at great peril. They become like chronic pain or smog to which we have become acclimated. Sources of great suffering can become a backdrop that we see and question less. In the stagnation of being taken for granted, the harms in the world and the possibilities for repairing them are more easily overlooked. It can then, sadly, take more and more tragic wake-up calls to wake us up to what matters, and to what we can do about it.

This is a terrifyingly banal era of intense suffering, exhorbitant destraction, countless possibilities for delusion, and a staggering amount of blessings woven through the fabric of it all. Last night, as we were working out the finer points of Carrie Newcomer's "Sanctuary," I found myself so caught up in the shatteringly beautiful vocals that I lost place playing my acoustic, finger picking guitar. In that moment all I could do was take in a deep breath of gratitude, return a quick thanksgiving to the One who is Creator, and regroup. Ms. Nelson closes her reflection as I would, too:

The ability to wake up to another new day — one with which we will surely need to wrestle and reckon, but one that will also teach and transform us, one we will be able to influence and impact, one in which we can always declare and share love — this is the unpromised gift for which to be grateful. This is the opportunity not to take for granted. Because if we are truly awake, we know that one unpredictable day, we will simply not have the gift of another day — a day such as today, with all of its beauty and pain, opportunity and beckoning possibility.

(Picture of discarded face mask outside of Conte Elementary School)

foot washing beyond my tradition...

This coming Sunday is Palm Sunday with Holy Week following fast on its heels. Where did the winter go? When we began Lent it was cold, dark, and snowy in these parts but now the sun is out and mud season has arrived. In our wetlands the "peepers" are going at it with abandon, I've seen signs of new life on the tips of some trees, and a few friends have posted pictures of wee flowers peeking out through the soil. I haven't seen our daffodils yet but it's just a matter of time.

In a few hours I'll be back with our beginning ukulele class. Earlier today I visited via Zoom with the house leaders and assistants at L'Arche Ottawa to share with them a brief overview of what to expect at Holy Thursday's foot washing ritual. Two truths popped up for me:

+ First, only a few within this cadre have shared and/or participated in this ritual that is foundational within L'Arche. In the early days of the international L'Arche community, this would have been unheard of; but given the secularization that has become normative throughout so much of the world - and the inclusion of other spiritualities within L'Arche - it is the new standard rather than the exception. This requires both a new sensitivity to the experience and wisdom of our diverse and young crew of international assasitants as well as a willingness for the old school to reframe what's important for us all in this ritual. I have always been - and always will be - one from a Western Christian worldview. Holy Thursday, therefore, carries a profound history for me: it not only initiates the Triduum which closes on Easter Sunday but reconnects me to the anguish of Jesus and the Cross. To know and believe that Jesus once performed this ritual for his followers as a way of embodied prayer - a model for how we are to live as servants for one another - is ripe with multiple layers of importance for me. But not so for those outside my tradition. It was useful and invigorating for me to try to describe the meaning of this sacramental ritual using non-religious language.

+ Second, there is a universal message in the ritual of foot washing that resonates with tradition but moves beyond it, too. There are three, interrelated meanings to this simple ritual: 1) It models and incarnates a solidarity of humility; 2) It evokes both vulnerability and trust; and 3) It teaches us to practice a horizontal leadership rather than one rooted in hierarchy. Each of these spiritual truths are grounded in L'Arche tradition. And each resonate with those who seek to embrace compassion. That's what gives a sacrament symbolic power: it offers shape and form to a deep spiritual truth that is true beyond discrete religious traditions. To kneel before another holding their naked foot in your hands opens us to our shared vulnerability that requires tender respect. There is a unique sensuality to this ritual, too that becomes a shared truth as the foot-washing is passed around a quiet circle of friends. And L'Arche encourages the one whose foot has been washed to then offer a simple blessing to the foot washer. In this, there is no high or low, but an integrated circle of shared vulnerability and love.

We will be doing this ritual - as well as our Stations of the Cross - virtually again given covid protocols. Two years ago, when covid was still new and bewildering, we shared a foot washing ceremony with our grandchildren in Brooklyn. They took it very seriously as they washed one another's feet and then Anna washed the feet of her dolls while their parents entered the rite, too. Last year, we created a power point at L'Arche Ottawa with quiet music. This year, we'll have trained leaders in each home in addition to a shared opening and closing via Zoom. My prayer for those who have never experienced this sacrament sounds like this poem from Carrie Newcomer:

I'm learning to sit with not knowing.

Even when my restless miind begins jumping

From a worried

What next?

To a frightened

What if?

To a hard edged and impatient,

Why aren't you already there?

I'm learning to sit and listen

to pat myself on the knee,

Lay my hand on mly heart,

Take a deep breath,

And laugh at myself.

To befriend my mistakes,

Especially the ones

That show me how

O most need to change.

I'm learning to sit with whatever comes

(Even though I'm a planner.)

Because so much of this life

Can't be measured or predicted.

Because wonder and suffering visit

When we least expect

And rarely in equal measure.

I'm learning to sit with

What I might never know

Might never learn,

Might never heal.

I'm learning to sit with

What might waltz in and surprise me,

Might crash into my days

With unspeakable sorrow

Or unctaintable delight.

I'm learning to sit with not knowing. 

For me, it is on to Palm Sunday and the start of Holy Week: may its deeper wisdom and love ring true beyond the confines of my small world.

credits:
1) https://www.pinterest.it/pin/416090453055957445/
2) http://jyotiartashram.blogspot.com/2007/10/jesus-washing-feet-of-peter.html

jesus, mary magdalene, wendell berry, pope francis and me...

It happens whe I least expect it: that feeling of being overwhelmed and exhausted. It's no one's fault, of course, except perhaps my own for not paying closer attention to the inward/outward flow of energy. Back in the day I would become anxious and resentful searching for someone to blame. Then I would melt down into a ball of mixed up feelings and tears. In time, I noticed that there's no winning in that way of being; and in time, with enough therapy, silence, and walking meditation I recognized that the better way was to simply step back, let things go for a spell, and sit in the stillness.

So, here I am again: no blame now just stepping back to rest and let go before re-engaging next week. A wee bit of self-care with silence and preparing our garden seeds for planting. This poem posted on the Friends of Silence newsletter spoke to me and I share it with you.

Welcome to the 4am Club.

It's well-attended.

People come and go freely.

There are no membership fees.

Drop-ins are always welcome.

Some people bring their physical pain:

headaches, back aches, restless legs.

Some bring their soul pain.

The language of tears is spoken.

Emotions circulate around the room:

fear, sadness, shame –

all the ones that crawl under the bed

when daylight comes.

Often prayers are whispered.

Blessings are blown across the miles

to loved ones.

Healing incantations are said

for those who suffer.

Peace is yearned for.

Thanksgivings echo through the night.

In the generosity of darkness and silence,

dreams are remembered:

nighttime dreams, childhood dreams, 

daydreams awaken forgotten pathways.

From time to time, joy pops in for a visit.

So do the cats. Lured by magic,

they find their way to a warm lap

and doze off.

Visions of beauty show up,

And creative weavers

wander around, aimlessly.

Sometimes a mysterious focus grabs hold.

Then, a light appears in the darkness,

revealing the unfathomable love

that holds everything together.

~ Jackie Sabath

After signing out of a few online commitments, I could breathe again. And sleep almost the whole night, too. I was able to throw out at least half of what I had written for my Small is Holy live stream as well and reorder my thinking about Jesus, Mary Magdalene, and Wendell Berry. In the rewrite, this poem jumped up saying: pay attention to ME! So, I did.

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.

Maybe there will come a day before my race is run when I won't get knocked down before stepping back. Hope springs eternal, but my hunch is I will only get a little better at it in the time that remains. Pope Francis says that one of the gifts of aging is a "spiritual sensitivity." In his meditation on the aging saints of the Temple in Jerusalem, Anna and Simeon, Francis writes:

What can we learn from these two elderly figures filled with spiritual vitality? We learn that the fidelity of waiting sharpens the senses. Besides, as we know, the Holy Spirit does precisely this: enlightens the senses. In the ancient hymn, Veni Creator Spiritus, with which we continue to this day to invoke the Holy Spirit, we say: “Accende lumen sensibus,” “Guide our minds with your blest light,” enlighten our senses. The Spirit is capable of doing this: of sharpening the senses of the soul, despite the limits and the wounds of the senses of the body.Old age weakens, in one way or another, the sensibility of the body: One is going blind, another one deaf. However, an old age spent in awaiting God’s visit will not miss his passage; on the contrary, it will be even more ready to grasp it, will have greater sensitivity to welcome the Lord when he passes. (Read the rest here: it's worth the time @ https://www. americamagazine. org/faith/2022/03/30/pope-francis-elderly-242723)