follow up to centering prayer...

The autumn poem, Nothing Gold Can Stay by Robert Frost, is new to me. Not the insight, just the phrasing, which strikes me as simultaneously stunning and true :

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.

It certainly gets close to the emotions of early fall and some of its spiritual wisdom. If spring preaches resurrection after the winter's death, and summer sings of creation's abundance and splendor, then autumn whispers to us about letting go. It is the season of kenosis where self-empyting shows us how to not only release anxiety, pain, and past wounds into the eternally open heart of the sacred, but do so without stress. As the man from Nazareth put it (through the poetry of St. John): abide in me and I in thee like a vine and its branches. This is the rest of surrender and acceptance, neither strife nor work, even if resting has become the paradoxical work set before us. 

Like all of our seasons, autumn is ripe with paradoxical practices: we gather in the harvest and relinquish all forms of hoarding including emotional, spiritual, physical, and psychological striving, bracing, grasping, and longing. Fall asks us to simply BE - without expectation, without anticipation, without lamentation or jubilation - just BE. Be still - and know. Be still - and watch. Be still - and experience the love all around us if we have eyes to see, ears to hear, hearts to feel, and minds to trust. Yes, their is anguish. To be sure, there is sorrow. Violence and shame, too. Yet as I take-in the wetlands behind our home, the essence of rest is on display in a hundred different ways. What was green has become brown. What was once an abundance of leaves is slowly revealing the naked but strong structures that give shape and form to each frond as they reach out for the sun. What was once a raging and wet oasis of new life is morphing into a dry cornucopia of acorns, seeds, milkweed, and fluff.

Autumn in these parts teases us in mid-August as just the tips of the oak and maple trees offer hints of red and orange. Soon, fields of golden rod and purple asters pop up seemingly from nowhere. The nights become cool without warning. And the Canada geese wave at all below as they honk and move towards their winter homes. Pumpkins are everywhere. Tomorrow we'll go pick ours in spite of the rain that threatens to interupt our fun. We'll feast on autumn goodies in the evening, too - including potatoes, tomatoes, and peppers from our garden - as we return thanks to God for our grandson on his 9th birthday. 

This is a time to rest and rejoice. There are tasks to complete before the weather turns to snow and grey, but hat's part of the deal: taking care of business and paying attention to each moment is our part of the sacred exchange God has set in motion. God gives the gifts, but we must receive them. The tasks of autumn are not demanding like digging a garden or shoveling the snow. They are far more gentle but still important. I can't help but think of the poem, For the Chipmunk in My Yard, by Robert Gibb.

I think he knows I’m alive, having come down

The three steps of the back porch

And given me a good once over. All afternoon

He’s been moving back and forth,

Gathering odd bits of walnut shells and twigs,

While all about him the great fields tumble

To the blades of the thresher. He’s lucky

To be where he is, wild with all that happens.

He’s lucky he’s not one of the shadows

Living in the blond heart of the wheat.

This autumn when trees bolt, dark with the fires

Of starlight, he’ll curl among their roots,

Wanting nothing but the slow burn of matter

On which he fastens like a small, brown flame.

After the Brooklyn crew arrives, we'll schlep over to a rock'n'roll outdoor party that has become a living prayer in my heart. Our hosts have invited us - that's the gift - but it won't be a party until we accept and show up in the flesh. This is how I am making sense of the unforced rhtyms of grace these days: hospitality, showing up, trusting and welcoming one another even as we let go of what is nonessential. There was a time, mind you, when welcoming friends, family, or guests would send me into an anxious cleaning fit more akin to Sherman's march to the sea than open-hearted hospitality. Not so much any more - or at least most of the time. I'll run the vaccum cleaner and mop the kitchen floor. We'll change the sheets in the guest room, move Lucie to our bedroom for the weekend, and leave the rest for... who knows when?

Incarnational and embodied prayer works for me right now; a little bit of Centering silence, too. Showing up, receiving, inviting, welcoming, feasting, listening, watching, trusting, singing, and setting aside my preoccupation with waiting feels healthy. Holy. Human. Last night I read that Fr. Thomas Keating, co-founder with William Menninger of the contemplative meditation we know as Centering Prayer, once said that: The most daunting challenge is to become fully human for to become fully human is to become fully divine. And it takes place quietly in small acts of being. David Baker puts it like this in Neighbors in October.

All afternoon his tractor pulls a flat wagon

with bales to the barn, then back to the waiting

chopped field. It trails a feather of smoke.

Down the block we bend with the season:

shoes to polish for a big game,

storm windows to batten or patch.

And how like a field is the whole sky now

that the maples have shed their leaves, too.

It makes us believers—stationed in groups,

leaning on rakes, looking into space. We rub blisters

over billows of leaf smoke. Or stand alone,

bagging gold for the cold days to come.

So, for me and those who chooses to join me, the next six weeks will be all about practicing Centering Prayer - again. This is a season to go deeper into subtraction rather than addition. Emptiness more than hoarding. As I shared yeseterday in my Small is Holy livestreaming reflection:

After nearly two decades of wandering within my own novel practices I have come to see that I have internalized the culture’s lie about contemplation and inward prayer being narcissistic. The mantra of my tradition has NEVER been: be still and know; but ALWAYS: hurry up and DO something. When I started to move in another direction by celebrating a contemplative Eucharist every Wednesday at noon, one snarky soul often made a point of telling me that: “while you’re sitting there safely gazing at your navel, the world is going to hell in a hand basket.” In Cynthia Bourgeault’s book, Centering Prayer and Inner Awakening, she notes that this has often been the critique of contemplation in Western liberal culture: 

You sometimes hear that this kind of prayer is private or narcissistic. And from the outside it may look that way: each person sitting on his or her meditation stool, wrapped up in his or her personal silence… but Centering Prayer is neither private nor without its profound effects in the physical world, a secret the hermits and mystics have always known… It is how we come to know from the inside out what St. Paul meant when he proclaimed: Whether I live or die, I am the Lord’s. The intent here is NOT to escape into some private holiness trip, but to allow the gospel to become more and more alive in us, more and more firmly rooted and grounded. Till at last, in the words of that remarkable prayer in Ephesians 3: “God strengthens us with power through the Spirit so that Christ may dwell in our hearts by trust… and we become filled with the very nature of the Lord.”

In this spirit, I am now making peace with two new/old observations 

+ First, learning how to let go – practicing inward surrender of all that I cling to, clutch, hoard or hold tightly – is how I make space for Christ’s peace within. I’ve long known that God yearns to share grace and rest with me, but never understood that my part in this exchange is to receive the gift. That’s what the give and take of the sacred sets in motion: the Holy offers us a blessing but we must accept it and make space to receive it.

+ Second, it’s only from within God’s peace that I can consistently share a peaceful presence with the world. Without being emptied of my fears, resentments, anxieties, and wounds, I cannot sustain being a person of peace for very long. I don’t have the wisdom, fortitude, en-durance, or ability to keep it going. Sure, I can white-knuckle it for a spell. But without abiding – resting and becoming empty so that I might be filled – I always run out of gas. As someone once told me: You can’t give, what you ain’t got. Fr. Keating has written that:

We are kept from the experience of Spirit because our inner world is cluttered with past traumas. As we begin to clear away this clutter, the energy of divine light and love begins to flow through our being... and we realize like St. Teresa of Avila told us: 'All difficulties in prayer can be traced to one cause: praying as if God were absent.' This is the conviction that we bring with us from early childhood and apply to everyday life and to our lives in general. It gets stronger as we grow up, unless we are touched by grace within and begin a spiritual journey. This journey is a process of dismantling the monumental illusion that God is distant or absent.

At its most basic, Centering Prayer offers six simple steps

+ Select a sacred word…

+ Set time aside to rest…

+ Open your resting with a simple prayer…

+ Use the word to pull you back whenever you notice you are wandering…

+ Close your meditation with a prayer of gratitude… 

+ Keep at it every day…

For going deeper, join me next Sunday, October 2 @ 4 pm on Small is Holy and/or check out the resources @https://www.contemplativeoutreach.org/centering-prayer-mobile-app/