another week of walking contemplation comes to a close...

On our last day of non-directive wandering, otherwise known as being le flâneur, we have put in a lot of miles. I was feeling it in my back yesterday but all feels find now; Di's reality is a horse of different color and we trust that this week's medical appointments will give her some relief. So, we move slowly these days: we cover less ground, take many more breaks, and still find it refreshing to wanted, watch, and wait upon this beautiful world. Interestingly, this morning Richard Rohr wrote:

If we watch our minds, we will see that we live most of our life in the past or in the future. The present always seems boring and not enough. To get ourselves engaged, we will often “create a problem” to resolve, and then another, and another. The only way many of us know how to motivate ourselves is to create problems or to need to “fix” something, someone else, or ourselves. If we can’t be positively present right now without creating a problem, nothing new is ever going to happen. We will only experience what we already agree with and what does not threaten us and our preferred mode of being. We will never experience the unexpected depth and contentment that is always being offered to us.

As is so often the case for me, when we step away from our routines and habits for a time of intentional wandering, not so much a "vacation" as an extended walking meditation into mindfulness, I realize just how much time I spend looking backwards. To be blunt, I'm reminded yet again: what a waste of time this is. So, too, with fretting about the future. Gratefully, as I was sitting in quiet reflection early today, this note popped up on the stunning Ravenous Butterflies site:

Sometimes, the strongest thing you can do is to allow yourself to feel weak, to stare your inherent vulnerability in the face and not retreat. There is dignity in the worst of circumstances; at the time it’s often impossible to comprehend this. The kindest treatment you can give yourself is acceptance. Allow yourself permission to feel broken; after all, you are human, just like all of us. One day you will look back, and your weakness will become your strength, your wisdom and compassion – so own it like there’s no tomorrow!

We stumbled upon a new Indian eatery last night after a long walk through le Vieux Port: it is almost enveloped by other small eateries and shops, has no current signage (it's just three weeks old), and nearly invisible from the sidewalk. The proprietor saw me struggling to discern an address so joined me on the steps to welcome us inside. It was lovely, reasonable, safe, clean, and delicious. It later stuck me as one of those quotidian moments of sacramental revelation: just beyond the obvious the present moment often holds delights to be savored if I am willing to be patient. 

I was really weary yesterday: probably a bit dehydrated, too. We got some good walking in but I was dragging. That's a bit of a blessing, too as it helps me pay attention to the wisdom of my body. Small insights, to be sure, but life enhancing. It made me think of a Mary Magdalene poem by Traci Rhoades I didn't get to use in yesterday's live stream reflection entitled: Let Me Be a Mary. In my sense of Magdalene as spiritual guide she trusts her flesh - she knows how it works and what it is telling her - and I need to do likewise - especially these days.

Lord, let me be a Mary.

Not Martha’s sister, who sat at your feet, although I find most days I’d much rather be there than in the kitchen. Mary has chosen the best part; it will not be taken away from her. (Luke 10:42)

Not the mother of our Lord, whose greatest honor brought forth her greatest suffering. A sword pierced her own soul just as Simeon prophesied. (Luke 2:35)

Let me be a Mary Magdalene, forever and always the first eyewitness to see an empty tomb. Early on Sunday morning, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb and found that the stone had been rolled away from the entrance. (John 20:1)

Let this news move my feet. Every Resurrection Sunday, from sunrise to sunset let me proclaim your holy name to those who deny you and those whom you call beloved. He isn't here! He is risen from the dead, just as he said would happen. (Matthew 28:6)

And in our private moments of intimacy, let me recognize your voice the instant you say my name. “Mary!” Jesus said. She turned to him and cried out, “Rabboni!” (which is Hebrew for “Teacher”). (John 20:16)

Let me remember the desperate times in my past only so much as they show me my very real need for you. For only in our great need do we come to appreciate a Resurrection Sunday. After Jesus rose from the dead early on Sunday morning, the first person who saw him was Mary Magdalene, the woman from whom he had cast out seven demons. (Mark 16:9)

Ah, yes, and one more small gift: it is way past time to unsubscribe and disconnect from many of my "news" notifications. Fear and trembling in, more fear and trembling out. Now's the time to hunker down into my contemplative commitments and devote my public energy to making music and sharing compassion. Back to the US of A in the morning and a summer fast from all the crazy noise!