Pilgrim Path

2011-10-13T16:04:00.001-05:00

AGING

So this is the way we grow old...
Time is a scruffy kid racing outside our reach
And each time we think of friends
We become distracted.

Just for a moment...
While I can,
I am thinking of you.

2011-06-06T20:40:00.005-05:00

COMPLINE – part two

A standard selection of Psalms are also chanted as part of the Compline service. While some might become bored by the same chants nightly, I find them soothing and assuring in their consistency. And while some sort of prayer or hymn to the Virgin Mary is included in all of the various Divine Hours, the Commemoration sung during Compline is particularly moving:

O Hail, Holy Queen, Mother of Mercy!

Hail, our life, our sweetness, and our hope!

To you do we cry, poor banished children of Eve;

To you do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping

In this vale of tears.

Turn, then, most gracious Advocate

Your eyes of mercy toward us;

And after this, our exile, show unto us

The blessed fruit of your womb, Jesus.

O clement, O loving, O sweet Virgin Mary.

Then, after a few moments of silence, the Abbey bell is rung for the Angelus – a prayer said silently in commemoration of the Incarnation.

As the bell continues to peal, the Guestmaster walks back to the area where the retreatants and guests are seated and opens the low glass gates to allow us to enter the monks’ area. First, all the monks process in a double line toward the abbot. Once at the front of the line, each monk slowly bows to receive the blessing of holy water from the abbot. After the monks have received the blessing, each of the retreatants and guests do as well.

And so begins The Great Silence until the Vigils service at 3:15am the next morning.

2011-06-03T15:01:00.017-05:00

COMPLINE – part one

There is about a quarter-mile oval driveway in front of the Abbey. It’s a favorite walking spot for many retreatants, especially some of the (ahem) older ones due to its nice flat surface. It is also a favorite spot because you are far enough away from the Abbey that at least a softly spoken conversation is possible. While personal talks are possible, telecommunication is decidedly difficult. Fortunately, at the end of the driveway is a rather imposing hill (or knob, as it is known in Kentucky) atop which stands a tall pedestal with a statue of Saint Joseph. Usually a cell phone signal is attainable at some point up the hill.

Since Compline, held at 7:30pm, is followed by the Great Silence (no speaking until morning), this short time after dinner is valuable as an opportunity to a catch up with fellow retreatants and to make some tentative plans for the next day. Gradually, conversation ceases and the Abbey bells begin to ring marking 15 minutes past 7pm. Retreatants who are usually scattered all over the front of the oval driveway and grassy areas begin their deliberate walks back to the church.

Special booklets marked “Compline” are usually sitting on the table behind the area where we sit during the service. After picking up a booklet, I move to the right side (just a habit), bend at the waist and enter a row and take my seat. The monks usually enter the church one by one, arriving from various locations. A couple of minutes before 7:30pm, the Abbey bells peal as a reminder to those monks who have not yet entered the church. At 7:30pm promptly, Abbot Elias sharply raps a piece of wood at his seat and we all rise to begin the service.

Compline is one of my favorite services of the day. The lighting in the church provides a gentle mood. The words of the hymns are meaningful:

“Before the ending of the day,
Creator of the world, we pray
That with thy gracious favor thou
Wouldst be our Guard and Keeper now.

From fears and terrors of the night
Defend us, Lord, by thy great might;
And when we close our eyes in sleep
Let hearts, with Christ, their vigil keep.

O Father, this we ask be done
Through Jesus Christ, thine only Son,
Who, with the Paraclete and thee,
Now lives and reigns eternally.”

Wow! It just occurred to me now as I typed this words for the first time ever, how strongly similar the words and intent are to the bedtime prayer my mother taught me and which we recited every night as she tucked me into bed:

“Now I lay me down to sleep,

I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I should die, before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take.
Amen."

I think I just figured out why Compline means so much to me.

(to be continued…)

2011-06-02T15:00:00.001-05:00

VESPERS

Long before my journeys to monasteries for retreats began, I was already familiar with the term Vespers, or Evening Prayer. Perhaps it is my Scottish heritage and old stories from the “motherland.” In any event, it is the single monastic Daily Office (service) that I knew.

At Gethsemani, Vespers is held at 5:30pm just before dinner. I usually try to arrive a bit early as the sharper angled and weaker light rays of that time of day usually create interesting effects on the stained glass windows and in the Abbey itself.

These effects often create a sense of peace that helps slow the heart at the end of a work day. It is easier to take on a prayerful or contemplative mood to match the softer lighting. The opening words of each service seem particularly meaningful:

“O God, come to my assistance.

O Lord, make haste to help me.”

At the end of the Vespers service, the retreatants slowly leave the Abbey by a side door that leads to the Retreat Center. After making several twists and turns in staircases and hallways, we all end up in a line ready to serve ourselves dinner from the hot (well, maybe lukewarm) trays of food in the kitchen serving area.

We take our selections on our trays to the dining area where most folks sit alone at individual tables. Since silence reigns during mealtime, there is not much sense in finding a pal to eat with. (Although, I think that with the exception of 1 meal, A, D and I took every meal at the same table. Occasionally our desperation caused us to resort to scribbling notes to one another on D’s ever present pad of paper. Personally, I enjoyed playing a game of charades myself in trying to get A and D to figure out what I was trying to say.)

The 6:00pm dinner is a bit lighter in fare that the midday meal. Keep in mind, that the final service of the day, Compline, is just a short hour and a half away and it is after that service that The Great Silence (bedtime) begins.

After finishing dinner and piling up our dirty plates, there is usually just about an hour before Compline. It is a perfect time for a short walk around the oval driveway in front of the Abbey. We were also fortunate in that each night, the weather was usually just perfect for that stroll where we often took the time to catch up with one another about our experiences of the day.

( to be continued...)

2011-06-01T18:37:00.002-05:00

HOW TO GET TO HEAVEN

After arriving at Gethsemani, we unloaded my SUV and dragged our luggage up to the retreat center. We opened the door and found a check-in desk manned by one of the monks (angels). Since monks (angels) don’t wear name tags, I’m not sure of his name, but if I had to guess, I’d say it was Peter. After announcing our names to “Peter,” he scratched a number after each of our names and handed each of us a set of keys: one to our room and one to the “outside” door. We were told to guard these keys carefully. We were then ready to set off toward our rooms, but before we left “Peter” advised us that the Abbot preferred that we not take the route through the Garden (how ironic, eh?). Instead, he handed each of us a slip of paper with some instructions…

1) Take the elevator to the 3rd floor
2) On the 3rd floor, turn RIGHT, go to last door on RIGHT
3) Go down 7 steps and enter the BALCONY door
4) CROSS the Church Balcony
5) Disregard sign DO NOT ENTER
6) Enter and you are on the 2nd floor
7) Go on flight up for 3rd floor
8) Find your room

While I didn’t hear the melodic voices of thousands of angels, I might as well have. Soon enough, the bells of the Abbey tower would ring out, summoning us to Vespers.

(to be continued…)

2011-05-31T18:21:00.002-05:00

THE JOURNEY BEGINS – the players

We may have Armistead Maupin’s “Tales of the City”, and the eight million stories in television’s “Naked City,” but I am guessing there may be just as many stories (if not nearly as salacious but always fully clothed) at Our Lady of Gethsemani Abbey in Trappist, Kentucky. Many of the tales may lay hidden and never be spoken. Others yet will slowly unwind as the dance of silence between monk and retreatant slowly evolves from a mere head nod to a full-fledged conversation.

Last week, I had the pleasure of my fourth retreat in ten years to Gethsemani (as she is named in shorthand by all who know her). Each retreat experience has been different, not so much by whom I happened to be traveling with at the time but much more by where I happened to be on my own journey. Before we get to that however, I will share some information about this year’s traveling companions.

When we began planning this trip, we had about 7 or 8 men who had expressed an interest. It was a very diverse group of folks whose sole bond of commonality was knowing me. We worked with a tight schedule and had to make some adjustments which ultimately caused us to lose a prospective retreatant (or several) along the way. In the end, there were 3 of us who journeyed out of Chicago, down the length of Indiana and crossed over into Kentucky.

Retreatant A. is a long tenured Art professor at an Illinois state university who specializes in Central African art. But A’s life experiences and ceaseless quest for knowledge (not to mention unique knick knacks) gives him a broad background that he freely shares with others without seeming pedantic. Always cheerful and ready for an adventure, A. spent 15 years of his life as a Jesuit before marrying his charming wife, raising a family and now basking in the glowing faces of deeply loved grandchildren.

Retreatant D. is a senior massage therapist at a very popular and classy men’s spa in Chicago. He is a spiritual seeker who has learned to trust his instincts as he creates his own map for his spiritual journey. (Believe me, there’s a map – I’ve seen it on his SmartPhone!) D. is also an adventurous sort. I knew when he said he wanted to come that I would need to find a way to get a camera into his hands as he would walk and walk for days all over the grounds and see things I’d never see with my own eyes. You will witness the truth behind this if you stick with me (and if the words agree to flow out of my fingertips for a few days longer).

And then there is me.

That’s enough for now. Stay tuned for more on this amazing retreat experience soon...

2011-04-21T21:58:00.000-05:00

Eloi, Eloi, Lama Sabachthani

San Francisco de Asis Church, Santa Fe, New Mexico

2011-03-29T19:06:00.000-05:00

RETREAT IN CLEVELAND

I'm just back from a men's retreat in the Cleveland, Ohio are this past weekend. Years ago a wrote a couple of poems after a retreat and I always enjoy reading and re-reading upon my return even years later, so here they are:

RETREAT

I went out to the woods
because their was a fire
in my heart that needed tending.
I know that words alone
cannot contain or change
the shape of this sacred flame.
And so I give myself the gift
of time to listen to the sound
of my heartbeat.
On holy land I cast off false illusions
and shed plates of armor
revealing a tender place
where love and I can live
and grow and thrive and welcome
each other home.

PERFECTION

Fourteen billion
year old molecules
crashing, caroming
randomly becoming
fire, water, earth and air
heading toward
this one,
perfect morning
where truth reveals itself,
for just a moment,
to those with ancient eyes.

2011-01-04T17:55:00.003-06:00

CURIOUS OBJECT – MOSAIC CROSS

As I’ve said often and elsewhere, those items considered a bit “off-center” tend to easily catch my eye. With all due respect to the people of Santa Fe, New Mexico, it is easy for me to find curious objects that attract my attention in that creative Mecca. My difficulty always comes in discerning which items speak so clearly to me that they end up in my suitcase. The mosaic cross shown below fairly leapt off the art gallery wall:

Growing up Presbyterian, the concept of Christ on the cross was not part of my core beliefs. After all, we are the Resurrection people. But in the ethnically, if not religiously diverse city of Chicago, it was not uncommon to see the image of Christ on the crucifix.

As a young person, the physical image of a kindly Pope John XXIII and his plan to cast open the windows of the Roman Catholic Church by means of holding a Vatican Council sounded exciting and intriguing even though ecclesiastically it had no effect on me.

In time, through Catholic friends, I learned that priests had begun facing parishioners during mass. Shortly thereafter, the Roman Catholic mass began being spoken in English in my neighborhood. The Council had moved forward by allowing “native” languages and indigenous cultures to be incorporated into the body of the mass. And so we come to the amazing mosaic cross I found in Santa Fe.

I hope you’re able to get a close look at the cross. It’s completely covered by small, clear pieces of mosaic tile in varying sizes. Beneath the tiles that cover the horizontal arm of the cross is a colorful rendition of the Last Supper. Imbedded in the ends of the arms are metallic religious medallions.

Above the scene of the Last Supper on the vertical arm of the cross is a picture of the face of an angel along with a red cabochon stone. Below the Last Supper is the image of Our Lady of Guadalupe, again with a red cabochon, this time, below the picture.

This cross just mesmerizes me. It looks like nothing I’ve seen before. It’s appearance is similar to that of a stained glass window but without the need for any background light. This cross represents to me a synthesis of European, American Southwest and Mexican cultures. In my journeys as a pilgrim, I have always found that when faith is freely expressed in a heterogeneous environment, the best of all cultures thrives. And in those environments, over time, Universal truths learned in the crucible of daily living are revealed through beauty in art.

2010-12-28T18:22:00.009-06:00

CURIOUS OBJECT: BELLINI MADONNA

Being raised “sporadically” as a Presbyterian, I had what one might call a “deprived” childhood when it comes to religious art. The only picture I remember seeing at church was hung behind the choir. It was the classic portrait of the Western European/American version of Christ painted by Walter Sallman:

We are taught to take our prayers directly to the Triune God. Intermediaries don’t play a significant role in our life of faith.

However, when you grow up in an overwhelmingly Roman Catholic neighborhood (Brighton Park in Chicago) where rosary beads, scapulars, communion dresses and missals are the essential tools of ones’ faith, it is easy to become captivated by these “exotic” accoutrements.

While I found these instruments of faith to be interesting, my curiosity was particularly heightened whenever I caught a glimpse of an icon of some saint or another. (One of the great feats for a Protestant was to pass by the front of a Roman Catholic Church on a “Holy Day of Obligation” and sneak a peek inside as a door was about to close.)

Through the many doors that God has placed before me, I’ve been blessed in my adult life with a broadly ecumenical point of view. I’ve learned about and participated in a wide variety of religious observances and come to respect them deeply. Just this past spring, I was permitted to join an Icon Writing (yes, writing, not painting) workshop. You can read about that experience and see my result at: Icon Workshop - 2010.

Over a long span of my life, icons have intrigued me. A few years ago, during one of many trips to Santa Fe, New Mexico, I was fortunate enough to accidentally arrive during Spanish Market – a festival of art and music.

One of the aspects of Santa Fe that I adore so much is that the people of the city wear their faith like another layer of clothes. Their faith is ever present. And so, it was no surprise that much of the artwork on display and for sale carried a spiritual theme.

(In an amazing bit of synchronicity, as I was putting this piece together in my head, I received an email that pointed me in the direction of book on Russian iconography. It is titled: Hidden and Triumphant – The Underground Struggle to Save Russian Iconography by Irina Yazykova and translated by Paul Grenier.)

In the foreword to this book, written by Wendy R. Salmond, I found some words that explain part of my fascination with icons:

“The icon preserves the canon by standing at the border
between two worlds, awakening the viewer’s spiritual
vision through the workings of the physical eye. All
icons are canonical when outer form and inner content
harmonize, bringing the viewer face to face with the world
of spirit in a state of prayerfulness. Like a heartbeat,
eternal time flows through such icons, undisturbed by the
restlessness of human time reflected in the history of continual

stylistic change.”

While walking up and down the streets of Santa Fe that shoot off the central plaza, I came across a booth that displayed a less conventional collection of icons. Enjoying all things “off-center,” I stopped and gazed at all the remarkable work. The artist’s name is Christina Miller (www.iconfusion.com). After a while, Christina caught me hovering for some time and we struck up a conversation. After speaking to Christina, I think I know why I am so attracted to her work. Christina is a true artist with a genuine soul who shares her joy through her work. Here is a picture of one of my favorite icons of hers that I own. It is called: Bellini Madonna.

At the time I bought it, I didn’t realize that Bellini was a famous High Renaissance artist who painted many pictures of the Madonna and Child. There are a couple of aspects of this icon that pulled me in and grabbed me. First, it is not all that common to find an icon depicting the Madonna alone. Second, the depiction was executed using only black and white paint. Despite these deviances from traditional icon writing, I still found the work to be effective in its ability to draw me in, quiet my heart and allow me to center myself and pray.

I have more pieces by Christina that I plan to share with you as this series continues.

Blessings.

2010-12-27T18:12:00.005-06:00

THE SPACE IN BETWEEN

Christmas is over and New Year’s will be here in a few days. The run-up to Christmas is always so fraught with hyperactivity that it’s hard to take the time to really enjoy the holiday. Usually, sometime ON Christmas Day, I find myself with enough time to become reflective. One of the best parts of the holidays is the opportunity to work with memories both old and new.

For the past few weeks, I’ve been changing my Facebook profile picture every few days to reflect some childhood memories of Christmas – sitting in the big spinning chair in front of the Christmas tree so confident that I’d been a good boy, standing in front of Uncle Don who came to our apartment dressed as Santa and made me feel so special, and finally, bundled up in a snow suit sitting high atop a pile of snow in my childhood backyard. Those are the simple, old memories that are quick to come by. Prompted by old photos, it is still easy (at least for now) to reconstruct the details.

For some reason, this year, an obscure, unphotographed memory has been popping into my head. Because of the holiday season, I guess I’ve got a little more time to pay it the proper attention it deserves. Like the others, it’s a childhood memory.

I grew up sporadically attending Brighton Park Presbyterian Church with my mother. I don’t really recall my father attending church with us but he did always give us rides back and forth in whatever current incarnation of a Rambler we owned at the time.

Brighton Park Presbyterian Church felt like home to me because I had several relatives who also attended church there – my mother’s sister, Aunt Bessie, and her son, my cousin, Douglas. Another cousin, Margaret, and her husband, Norman, who was the son of one of our former pastors, also attended. It was easy to feel comfortable there. Besides these relatives, anyone who was friends with these kin also treated me with kindnesses.

The particular memory that has been picking at my brain is of a friend of my cousin, Douglas. I believe I am remembering his name correctly – it was Jim Hardin. He was a tall, distinguished and good looking young man who I believe was a teacher. I recall one night riding in my cousin Douglas’ car to go visit or pick up or drop off something at Jim’s apartment. Douglas was always very good at getting me to tag along with him and I was happy to go because Douglas is a good guy who is fun to be around and who has a wonderfully explosive laugh. It may have only been one visit, but I remember it to this day.

Jim lived in a very neat apartment with lots of dark wood furniture. There were bookcases filled from floor to ceiling with books and there were display cases with glass sides that were lit from inside that seemed to me to hold museum-like treasures. My recollection is that there were busts and other artifacts that looked as if they had come from ancient Egypt. This apartment was nothing like the apartments of my relatives – this place was magical.

I can’t recall a thing about what Douglas and Jim discussed that night but I know they were content to let me take my time staring at these amazing, odd items. I’d always looked up to Jim (of course, he was also about 6 ft tall) but this visit to his apartment raised his value in my eyes.

In wasn’t until these memories came to mind this year that I realized the influence that Jim might have had upon me and my life. As some of you know, I was a Chicago Public School History teacher for a few years at the start of my career. I know there are others, including Mrs. Florence Zvetina at Gunsaulus Elementary School and Miss Fay Hasan at Kelly High School, who also led me to that career choice.

But there is another aspect of my life that I believe may be even more influenced by Jim Hardin. I am a collector of objects from far and wide that may not mean anything to anyone but me but with which I enjoy filling up every available space in my house in order to feel comfortable.

I’ve had a bit of writer’s block for a while as some of you have probably noticed. I’m hoping to break that logjam by starting a new series about Curious Objects. These items, along with my insatiable desire to tell stories, should keep these pages full, at least for a little while. Stay tuned…

2010-12-08T21:36:00.000-06:00

A GLIMPSE INTO MY WORK CUBICLE

2010-10-18T06:00:00.002-05:00

RETREAT SNIPPET #4

From my journal:

Integrity, or the lack of it, has been an issue for me recently in my relationships with other people. Since December, my low level depression has deepened. On occasions, I have felt a loss of control of my thoughts and emotions.

In my interpersonal relations with dear friends, they have noted an undercurrent of anger. After months of personal introspection, I was able to identify the sources of this anger. In the past few weeks, I have begun dealing directly with the lack of integrity of the people involved and also begun taking actions to "step away" from these toxic relationships.

Having identified the lack of integrity as a source of my anger and increased depression, I intend to live a fully open and honest life where integrity will be a capstone. I know in my heart when my words and actions are aligned and true. Now I must listen and heed my heroic heart.

2010-10-17T06:00:00.005-05:00

RETREAT SNIPPET #3

From my journal:

Searching for a Heroic Heart

Why the long line of dysfunctional men in my family? I hesitate to call it weakness as I probably don't have enough facts to be so judgmental. But how have I attained almost 58 years with so few strong, positive role models. It seems the men I admire most are those I've encountered in my men's work or when discussing men's work. I may not be in regular, systematic contact with most of these men, but they are authentic and possess integrity and I know that if I needed to, I could send an email or pick up the phone and they would be there to listen to me. Sometimes we don't need answers; sometimes we just need someone with a strong, kind heart to sit and listen and send us back to the world more whole.

2010-10-16T06:00:00.005-05:00

RETREAT SNIPPET #2

From my journal:

Why am I here? After a year of many detours and false starts, I am looking to return home. Pain and anger have fallen off my soul like scales from eyes that are now able to see. I am home in the company of men who are willing to share this journey with me. Today is a blessing long desired. I am truly blessed.

Amen.

2010-10-14T20:49:00.002-05:00

RETREAT SNIPPET #1

I picked up my friend, John, who lives in SF at a Starbucks near downtown and we headed out to Plano, IL (a suburb about 25 miles west of Chicago). When we arrived at the LaSalle Manor Retreat Center (affiliated with the Christian brothers), we were greeted as we pulled into our parking space with a big smile and open arms by Steve, a UCC pastor from Vermillion, South Dakota and co-leader of this retreat. Steve summoned his two teenage sons, Caleb and Seth to grab our luggage out of the back of my SUV. We had begun our retreat with an extravagant welcome!

2010-10-13T18:37:00.007-05:00

MALE SPIRIT RETREAT - THE HEROIC HEART

For about 7 years now, I've attended a men's retreat organized by the Shem Center for Interfaith Spirituality. Formerly held over Dr. King's birthday weekend in January, this year's retreat was held over Columbus Day weekend at LaSalle Manor Retreat Center in Plano, IL. I have just returned from this event attended by 27 incredible men from a diverse range of places. The theme of this year's retreat was The Male Heroic Heart and was led by Brother Joseph Kilikevice, founder and director of the Shem Center, and Steve Miller, a UCC pastor, from Vermillion, South Dakota.

Over the next few days, I plan to give you a glimpse of the retreat through general descriptions of our activities and my journal entries. Stay tuned.

2010-10-13T18:29:00.003-05:00

I'M BACK

Let's see if we can't get this spot jump-started...

2010-07-15T22:05:00.006-05:00

CONSOLATION

We missed the bus to Tobermory,
so we drowned our tears
at the Keel Row Pub.
Grizzled, stinky whiskered fishermen
in yellow slickers pounded down pints.
We ate our greasy lunches,
and drank our opaque ales
as we huddled ‘round a wee table
in a midnight dark corner
at midday,
and laughed
until the ferry boat came.

2010-07-12T17:55:00.002-05:00

WHERE OLD MEN GO

Some old men sit on porches,
on swings, in rockers.
Others walk a pier,
fishing pole and tackle box in hand.
If they’re lucky,
a young ‘un tags along.

But my old mind wanders
to a solo spot
atop Staffa,
a small Scottish isle.

Walking through foot high wild grass,
I lift my legs in exaggerated motion.
Just ahead, hundreds of feet
below this hillock, I hear the sea.
Stepping gingerly, I find rock steps,
leading me to a stone shelf
made just for me to sit a while,
and be alone with the sea and the waves
and my old man thoughts and dreams.

2010-06-08T18:11:00.009-05:00

ICON WRITING

Yes, writing; not painting. This was a distinction that was clarified in the early minutes of the Icon Writing Workshop in which I participated this past weekend. We learned that… “…everything involved in the writing of a liturgical icon has spiritual meaning tied to Scripture and reveals different levels of manifestation of God's Presence within the iconographer.”

Being an impatient sort myself, I won’t make you wait any longer before I reveal my finished icon:

This was my first ever effort at writing an icon, and if you’ll pardon my lack of humility, I’m pretty proud of it. I know it isn’t perfect, but neither am I.

My teacher’s name is Joe. I’ve known Joe for a couple years now. I first met him at a birthday party for our mutual friend, Tim. That night is memorable as one in which a group of folks who barely knew one another laughed themselves to the point of tears on several occasions. Who would have guessed that Joe was a skilled (and quite well known) iconographer as well as a gifted teacher?

The workshop began on a Friday night with a couple hours of background info and a chance to get our feet wet by applying a little bit of paint to our boards. We resumed our work on Saturday morning at 9am. Throughout the day, we were introduced to a number of techniques and learned when to use them. At some point in the day, a transformation (dare I say a transfiguration?) took place.

Although we were all working on producing a copy of the same icon, Saint Michael the Archangel, there were subtle differences from individual to individual. My first Rubicon was painting the eyes. A prayed aloud to not let Saint Michael look like Bart Simpson.

While there were many sets of eyes painted by my colleagues that were far superior artistically to mine, I was comfortable that the eyes I had painted were right for my icon.

Having successfully negotiated that hurdle, I relaxed a bit as I added color to the wings and the robe. In order to give more of a sense of life to the icon, it was necessary to add some shading to the face and hands. It was then that I became entranced by my icon. Despite there being 11 other people in the room, I felt alone and in a prayerful place with my icon. I was working on shading the right hand.

It was a delicate hand and graceful, too. I still get goosebumps when I remember working on capturing the correct shading on that hand. Saint Michael was speaking to me but not in words. I was content to work slowly on this small section of the icon to get it just right. In those moments, the icon became my muse both in the sense of spurring me artistically, but also spiritually.

My mind turned to all those people over the centuries who have written icons and imagining how they too had been affected by their work. I simply smiled as I felt I had joined a communion of artists. In a couple weeks, the church that sponsored the workshop will be featuring our work at the 11:30am mass. The head priest will be present to bless our icons. How cool!

I don’t think this will be my last icon. Joe is talking about having an Advanced Icon Writing Workshop. But even if he doesn’t, I think I know how to get started. I’ve gained confidence in my ability to do this. But most of all, I look forward to continuing a centuries old tradition and communicating with my own personal representation of the holy.

Amen.

2010-05-24T17:49:00.003-05:00

FATHER MATTHEW KELTY – PART ONE

On a pleasant Sunday fall afternoon in October, 2001, my friend Bob and I prepared to leave Chicago for a weeklong retreat at Our Lady of Gethsemani Abbey in Trappist, Kentucky. After finally getting Bob’s SUV packed, he turned the key, started the car and clicked the radio on. The news reader reported that the bombing of Afghanistan, in response to the attack of 9/11, had begun. Bob and I looked at each other. He wordlessly reached for the radio volume dial and turned it to the off position.

After a “last supper” breakfast that included meat (forbidden at the monastery) , we arrived at the abbey on an early Monday afternoon. We grabbed as much of our belongings out of the SUV as we could and made our way to the retreat center to check in with the guestmaster. We were surprised to find a mingling crowd of men in various states of check-in. When it came to our turn, the guestmaster shuffled papers somewhat endlessly before apologizing that they had overbooked and that Bob and I would need to take a room in the monk’s quarters. I’m not sure how others would react to this news, but as for me, I felt that I’d hit the monastic lottery at my first attempt.

The rest of the first day was spent settling in and getting familiar with the grounds and labyrinthine staircases. After a day of travel and expectation, I was looking forward to The Great Silence – the time after the last service of the night, Compline, when monks and guests alike were expected to retire for the day. Due to the early start of the monastic day – 3:15am – the last service is held at 7:30pm.

Compline is a beautiful service that is identical every night. The same prayers and psalms and songs are chanted and sung each night concluding with the blessing of the Abbot with sprinkled holy water as we processed past him. To my surprise, we were shepherded off into a side chapel after Compline. As obedient oblates (of a sort), we quietly moved into the chapel and each found a seat.

After a very short time, a small, stooped, ruddy-faced monk carrying a large pile of books with all sorts of scraps of paper bookmarks entered the chapel, mumbled a blessing and opened one of his books. Without introducing himself, he began by speaking the title of a poem, the name of the poet and then the poem itself. He didn’t keep his nose in the book, but neither did he look us in the eyes. His upward glance from the book was just that: upward and a glance, to his holy audience.

Finishing the poem, he closed the book and moved it to the nearby altar while quickly shuffling through the other books, almost as if panning for gold. A-ha, you could almost here him exclaim. Before long, you were deeply immersed in the listening of another poem. It seemed the most natural thing to close one’s eyes in order to more deeply hear the words. As he finished the poem, it was my turn to inwardly say, A-ha.

The second book was closed, placed on the altar (the symbolism was deep), and then the book shuffling began again. A third and final poem was read. There was a certain rhythm to his reading. Perhaps it was a rhythm learned from years of chanting psalms. To my ears however, his words sounded like a lullaby.

(to be continued…)

2010-04-24T18:12:00.009-05:00

PARDON THE INTERRUPTION

I was prepared to write the next installment in the "Boys in the Hood(s)" series about some of my encounters over the years in monasteries - but my amazing life got in the way.

I've mentioned my dear friend, John, before. We have a remarkable friendship which survives many miles of distance. More often than not, there is a daily exchange of emails between us. Sometimes I bleed all over the laptop with stories of my life. I tease John that his "drive-by" return emails overlook my trials and tribulations. But the next day we carry on just the same.

John writes a remarkable blog that you should add quickly as a bookmarked destination. Now, if you are the stubborn or lazy type, here is a quick and easy link to the posting that I specifically want you to read: Lost and Found and Lost . John's blogs often resonate with me. This one appeared at a perfect time.

Just last night, I was set to meet another dear friend to attend a Medieval choral music concert that was being performed at the neo-Gothic Rockefeller Chapel on the campus of the University of Chicago. We usually meet for dinner beforehand. When I am able, I try to scoot out of work early on occasions like this in order to take advantage of my membership at the Seminary Co-op Bookstore. I was fortunate that despite already having selected my purchases, I found myself standing in line to check out when in a moment a "book will find you and on that day you will have the courage to take and read." Somewhere, sometime over the past few weeks in my hyperactive perusal of book reviews throughout the Internet, I saw the title of this book: "Making Toast." I was intrigued.

Three years ago, I made a retreat in the dead of winter to Saint Benedict's Momastery in Snowmass, Colorado. It was a true pilgrimage as the trip from Denver to Snowmass involved a four hour ride in a van packed with strangers and driven by a young woman who was a ski fanatic overwintering in Colorado from Australia.

I had opted to spend my time in a hermitage - away from the retreat house. As a result of this choice, I was responsible for my own meals. As I wrote at the time...

"My time away allowed me to stuff all the baggage of everyday life away and to see and live a bigger life. Simple tasks like preparing a meal - even making toast - became holy. Without a dayplanner filled with appointments and events, I was able to take pleasure in the choices before me. Instead of "going smaller," I felt more connected to the "bigger life" promised to all of us."

Roger Rosenblatt's new book is not about retreats, but it is about a deep spirituality. It is about the work of grandparents who are thrust into the daily life of their daughter's family when she dies at age 38 of an undetected heart defect. Their daughter's husband and three children most cope with this loss and somehow manage to go on. With simple yet heartbreaking words, Rosenblatt writes about the grandfather's heroic efforts to learn how to "make toast" exactly how each of the three grandchildren like it. I am grateful for having had the experience of knowing how "making toast" can be holy.

2010-04-23T22:41:00.004-05:00

THE BOYS IN THE HOOD(S)

My friends know that since 2001, I’ve made it a habit (sorry) to try to make a retreat to a monastery at least once each year. I’ve made multiple visits to Our Lady of Gethsemani Abbey in Trappist, Kentucky (former home of Thomas Merton) and to Christ in the Desert Monastery in Abiquiu, New Mexico. I’ve made one time only visits to Mepkin Abbey in Moncks Corner, South Carolina, Saint Benedict’s Abbey in Snowmass, Colorado and Saint Gregory’s Abbey in Three Rivers, Michigan . In addition, I’ve made a one day visit to New Melleray Abbey in Peosta, Iowa and Pecos Abbey in Pecos, New Mexico.

With only one exception (which shall remain nameless), regardless of the religious order or affiliation: Benedictine, Franciscan, Cistercian, Episcopal, etc., the sense I each got at each monastery was that they were truly sincere in living up to the Rule of Saint Benedict that guests should be welcomed as if Christ. But that sense is not exuded through the venerable walls of these institutions, rather through their residents – the boys in the hoods.

When visiting a monastery, whether it is for a single day or for a retreat of several Days, it is most common to encounter the Guestmaster. This is a role identified by Saint Benedict in his Rule. He is the monastery’s face to the outside world. My experience has been that the Abbott (head of the monastery) usually selects the more affable or outgoing monk for this role. From Brother Aelred at Mepkin to Father Carlos at Gethsemani, these men are charged with bridging the vastly different worlds of the lay visitors and the monks.

One of the most important reasons that I find myself returning year after year to a monastic retreat is the ability to share in the life of the community. From the very early pre-dawn service of Vigils (or Matins) to Compline at the close of the day, guests are encouraged to participate in the religious life of the monastic community.

But treasured moments on monastic retreats can spring up at the most unexpected times in unplanned interactions with the resident monks. They happen in liminal space and time when the sacred and the secular meet and wallow in each other’s goodness and grace. I hope, over the next few days, to jot down some of my favorite memories of these glimpses of heaven.

2010-04-14T18:20:00.010-05:00

SIMPLE GIFTS

The most obvious intent in making a retreat to a Trappist monastery is to share in the life of this community of devoted servants of God. There are numerous opportunities to worship with them at services named: Vigils, Lauds, Mass, Terce, Sext, None, Vespers and Compline. But just as rewarding is the chance to some spend time in nature.

The grounds of the Abbey of Our Lady of Gethsemani are a blessing. Just across the highway from the Abbey and Retreat House lie undulating hills and woods with numerous winding paths that call us to explore. On the first day of my retreat, I found myself taking steps toward this land. Although this was my third trip to Kentucky and the monastery, this was my first experience in early spring.

Fields, bushes and trees were in various states of bloom, showing off colors not seen at other times of the year. Mesmerized, I carried on along a path until I sensed a small body of water – a pond. I made my way through some higher grasses and came upon a beautiful body of water. Just as I moved the last blocking branch of a bush from my line of sight, I saw a blue heron take flight from the surface of the pond. Its long neck and graceful wings reminded me of a ballet dancer. I felt a sense of gratitude for having witnessed such beauty.

A simple smile crossed my face.

I turned around and headed back to the Abbey as there was a service of Sext due to begin in about 25 minutes. I don’t remember much of that walk as I felt surrounded by a sense of beauty and belonging. I realized that it had been some time since I’d allowed myself to relax enough to see the real world around me.

I entered the shadowed Abbey and sat in silence prior to the service. One by one, each of the monks slowly entered and blessed themselves with water from the holy font. I closed my eyes and recalled the sight of the heron taking flight. Suddenly it occurred to me that this gift was not intended for me alone. Each day, scenes like this occur whether I am there to witness them or not.

A simple tear of joy fell from one eye.

2010-04-12T18:20:00.006-05:00

RETREAT

It's been a while since I've had the chance to get away for a week on retreat. I'm just back from a week in Kentucky where I spent several days at The Abbey of our Lady of Gethsemani and the Shaker Village in Pleasant Hill. It seems it took getting away for me to realize just how much I missed getting away. It was a time of rest and renewal. Nature always plays a significant role in my recharging and I was blessed with several days of beautiful spring weather that gave me many opportunities to walk and even to just sit and pay attention to the world. There will be several postings over the next few days (I hope) as I process my time away, but I'd like to begin by repeating the words of Thomas Merton who lived at Gethsemani for many years:

My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Not do I really know myself, and the fact that I think I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road though I may know nothing about it. Therefore I will trust you always though I may seem lost and in the shadow of death, I will not fear, for you are ever with me, and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.

(Photo of abandoned North American Van Lines trailer that rests in the woods across the highway from the Abbey of our Lady of Gethsemani. Thomas Merton would sometimes steal away to this trailer to read, write and ...)

2010-03-19T18:37:00.002-05:00

ACCENT COLOR

What is your accent color?
No, not the one that acquaintances see
when they first meet you. I’m talking
about the color that your holy friends
remember you by when you’re not
in the room. I think, I hope, I’m red.

2010-01-08T19:10:00.005-06:00

BROTHER GEORGE
Chapter 2 - In the Gap

No one was surprised when wee Georgie vanished. There was a history in his family of menfolk disappearing; uncles, great-uncles and cousins. It was almost as if the otherwise quiet men just sat around with their engines idling until the NASCAR starter tree light flashed green and they were out of there.

George’s story was a little different. He’d been born a "change of life" baby to a youngest daughter. All that math conspired to place him not quite midway between two generations. He shared little in common besides a gene pool with his brother who was eleven years older. George’s nephew was a mere five years younger. Family holiday gatherings were made all the more stressful by George’s mostly futile pleadings to be allowed to sit at the adult table.

A book about George’s childhood might well be titled "In the Gap." Besides being stuck between generations, George was the only member of the family of his generation born in the United States. His folks, his siblings and all the rest of his relatives had been born in Scotland.

In school, while bright enough, he wasn’t quite in the upper echelon of academic performers. He was neither popular nor shunned. George was also just good enough in sports to avoid the shameless taunts of the jocks.

Because of his unremarkable skills, George was often dismissed and sold short. His ability to "get by" became a source of great inner strength. He didn’t need to rely upon the accolades or assurances of anyone else to carry on. So when George took off one late teenage weekend claiming to visit a friend who was away at college and didn’t return there was an initial sense of family concern but not alarm. A quickly sent letter settled the matter in good order.

IN MEMORIAM

Idyllic childhood memories

evaporate like morning dew

under the harsh light of learning

truths fin’lly ripe for consumption.

Pray give us strength to withstand pain

inflicted by those not able

to turn from our destructive habits,

falling back on their cruel nature.

When will we gird our souls to halt

transmission of these ancient pains

on innocents now freed to fly

and simply sing their songs to us?

2010-01-06T11:55:00.010-06:00

BROTHER GEORGE

After years of rising at 3:30am, Brother George had refined his sense of sight, allowing him to discern the hour of his rising without the use of an alarm clock or watch. He was always the first to stir despite many brothers who’d lived in Saint Aelred monastery for decades longer. As sexton, it was his responsibility to press the button that set the bells to ringing, calling all to the service of Vigils. (It had been many years since he had to pull on a rope to sound the bells.)

With a twist and a shove, he hoisted himself to an upright position on his sway-backed bed. Bending over he flapped his hands around trying desperately to locate his sandals. It would be a very rude awakening to set foot upon the cold, clay tile without benefit of footwear. With success at hand, he reached for his walking stick and took four measured steps to the wall where the bell button was located.

Brother George coveted his role as sexton, most often during the early morning hours as he roused the other monks from their slumber and called them to their place in the abbey for Vigils – waiting for the light. But what he particularly enjoyed was the extra time it gave him to sit, meditate and write poetry.

PERFECTION

Fourteen billion year old molecules

crashing, caroming

randomly becoming

fire, water, earth and air

heading toward this one,

perfect morning

where truth reveals itself,

for just a moment,

to those with ancient eyes.

2010-01-05T18:42:00.007-06:00

A piece I came across that moved me...

HABITUS
by Thom Satterlee

Language, he asserted, was a habitus... What
precisely he meant by habitus is not explained,
but the context in which the word is applied to
language would suggest a sense of "clothing... "
— Anne Hudson,
"Wyclif and the English Language"

All morning he read from a thick volume
propped on a stand. He read and he read,
and when he closed his eyes
he continued to read
until the words took off their clothes
and laid them down on a hillside
that vanished whenever a cloud
passed between it and the sun.

All his life Wyclif had wanted this:
The words undressed and he going to them,
a child to a fair, burning to see
if Faith wore her hair in a braid,
whether Why held out its hands, palms up,
and where Simony put his coins
when he stood naked in the light.

But no: Wyclif had gotten it all wrong.
He was not going to see the words.
They were coming toward him
with their arms loaded with robes
stacked so high he couldn’t see their faces.
And before he knew it, invisible hands
began measuring him with ropes
stretched between his wrist and chest,
from his hip down to the ground,
around his waist and around his neck.

The fitting took all day. He tried on
Son and Friend, Scholar, Reformer,
Heretic; he slipped into Priest,
wore also Doctor Evangelicus
and Morning Star. Some robes
hung too loosely; others pinched his neck.

In the end, he had to wear them all
and learn the sadness of being a word –
only one surface to show the world
while he lived underneath the layers
and listened for the barely audible
sound of his own heart beating.

P.S. I'm thinking of introducing you to a new character who
has sprung forth from my heart...a Poet Monk named George.
Tune in on Wednesday to see if he makes an appearance.

2010-01-03T21:25:00.002-06:00

WORD

My dear and wise friend, Christine, over at www.abbeyofthearts.com, has posted an inquiry for her readers. She asks us to name a word for the year. There are many very wonderful answers over there and I encourage you to read them. Here is what I wrote:

"I read your post a few days ago, but didn’t feel the tug of a word right at that moment. However, in the interim, I’ve found the word “authenticity” or, I think, more appropriately, the word found me. It is not an easy word in many ways. It doesn’t exactly roll of the tongue. Upon reflection, that is probably on purpose, just to remind us that we need to work to let our “authenticity” glow."

With light and love,
Rich

2009-12-24T12:53:00.004-06:00

CHRISTMAS EVE MEMORIES 2009

After a couple of weeks of sleeping from 3am to 10am, I was awakened by my alarm at 7am. It’s OK, I am taking a dear friend to the airport so he can be with his family for Christmas.
Having breakfast at Orange with same dear friend and being cajoled, and refusing, to taste Chai flavored French Toast. (bleech!) I had the “boring” buttermilk pancakes (yes, that is what they call them on the menu). (I thought I was being adventurous enough with the orange/grape juice.)
Getting a call from my brother to bitch about Christmas plans and family members, but knowing the real reason he called.
Pre-heating the oven and having the leftover scent of chocolate chip cookies waft through the house.
Deciding it is overcast enough to turn on the Christmas lights in the front window at noon.
Looking out same front windows and hoping that the forecasted rain doesn’t melt away all of the snow before Christmas morning.
Reading friends’ blogs and sending brief comments just to stay connected.
Remembering Uncle Don a.k.a. Santa.
Putting the finishing touches on the Christmas baskets.
Grateful to have rediscovered old photos and old memories.
Laughing as Basil (my oldest cat) sucks up to me today thinking he’ll get a better present than Abbey and Bruiser.
Cuddling up on the end of the couch, wrapped up in a snowman blanket I got from my Pennsylvania great-nieces, near a small lamp so I can read the book I just received that was written by my very dear friend, John. You can read it, too. Just order it at: http://www.amazon.com/Touching-Wonder-Recapturing-Awe-Christmas/dp/1434764656/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1261680621&sr=8-1
Hearing the buzzer on the stove go off, telling me the last batch of chocolate chip cookies is ready.
Thinking how blessed I am.
Wishing you all a very Merry Christmas!

Rich

2009-12-22T21:46:00.003-06:00

ANOTHER SATISFIED CUSTOMER

What more does a young boy need than an eyeless teddy bear, a stuffed monkey and a phone?

Thanks, Santa

Merry Christmas!

2009-12-21T21:01:00.006-06:00

WHAT CHILD IS THIS?

If you read my previous posting, you know that I recently re-discovered a collection of childhood photos. Among them were a few taken during the Christmas Holiday season. I'm guessing this one was taken in (gulp) 1956.

This photo mesmerizes me. My attention is first drawn to the pretty sparse Christmas tree, heavily laden with ornaments, garland and tinsel trying desperately to look full and ready for its camera, Mr. DeMille. I can spot a metallic silver bell that I have to this day. Every time I hear that Christmas song about “…Christmas-time in the city…” a smile appears on my face.

I can see the glittery cotton tree skirt that hosted a tiny village of houses and trees. My mother would take a pair of scissors and cut a hole in the skirt and place a small mirror under the opening to mimic a frozen pond. Although I can’t see them, we had small metal ice skaters that I used to play with on the “pond.” In later years, I’d improvise a snowy hill for small metal skiers by placing books of the encyclopedia under the skirt, too.

Does anything in this picture date it more than the chair in which I’m sitting? It was a bright red with silver threads that looked like tinsel. The best part of this chair was that it spun 360 degrees.

Most surprising of all in this picture is my pose. Where did that self-confident, self-assured child come from? I suppose part of the confidence came from being “related to Santa” (see previous posting). It’s kind of appropriate, I suppose, in this Holiday season to look at this picture and ask “What Child Is This?”

Now before you begin lambasting me with accusations of blasphemy, you must know that in the deepest part of my faith is the belief that God is within each of us. He shines from within when we are being the best we can be. The child in this picture is living fully in the moment of the Holidays in a way that I’m not sure adults can. I only know that finding this picture this year has brought me back to that feeling in a way that I haven’t felt in a long time.

2009-12-20T23:41:00.007-06:00

UNCLE DON and CHRISTMAS

Several weeks ago, I tackled a long overdue task of cleaning out the garage…or at least “starting” that job. Most of the items I touched made the very short trip to the garbage can. However, I found a mini-photo album with several early childhood black-and-white photos of myself that had been missing-in-action for some time and I was very glad to find it. Despite my exhaustion from pawing through so much “crap,” I was very excited to drive over to the neighborhood Walgreen’s later that same day to convert these newly found treasures into digital photos.

During the time it took for the scanner to work its magic, I had a chance to look at each picture more closely. I was surprised at how quickly the childhood memories came flooding back. While most of the pictures were taken when I was an age too early to remember the circumstances, there were a few that prompted vivid memories. Witness:

Yes, that is me. I’m standing in front of Santa a.k.a. Uncle Don. Uncle Don was my mother’s oldest brother. I’m not sure exactly when he began playing Santa, but I’m pretty sure his performances spanned 5 decades. He began playing Santa for the American Legion post where he was very active. It sort of ruins the mystique of his work to wade too deeply in the facts. I’d rather wallow in the memories.

Each year, my father and I would hop in the car and drive over to the Legion Hall on 38th Street at Central Park Avenue. It was always a very dark night just days before Christmas. As we’d exit the car, you could feel the electricity in the air – at some point tonight, Santa would arrive. I remember always glancing up to the roof of the Hall to see if I could catch a peek of a Santa who might have arrived early. On balmy winter evenings, I’d worry about the rails of the sleigh on the roof. (At some point, I was assured that Santa would plan ahead and fasten wheels to the rails on snowless visits.)

Entering the Legion Hall, there was a steep set of stairs to climb to get to the hall where the entertainment would perform as we waited for Santa. One year, there would be a puppeteer with marionettes; another year there would be a magician. We didn’t really care too much about their acts as we were just eager for them to exit the stage so we could begin singing carols in anticipation of Santa’s arrival.

You could never tell each year how many carols it would take for Santa to arrive. I quickly learned that it was wise to keep one ear open while singing carols for the sounds of Santa’s sleigh landing on the roof. An otherwise frightening thud would shake the building and simultaneously about 200 children would be catapulted into a frenzy that stirs my heart to this day.

I have no idea how they managed, but the women’s auxiliary would corral us into an orderly line so as to visit with Santa and get our stocking filled with simple games and cheap candy. The gift didn’t even matter – the experience and the memory of it were most important.

Being related to “Santa” brought an amazing benefit: a personal home visit. There is a magic in a child’s oblivion. I’m sure that there were many calls to arrange the date and time of the visit, but I never caught on. We lived in a second floor rental apartment, but on a random night before Christmas, while already dressed in my pajamas, I would hear the loud jingling of a leather strap full of bells from down the street. I’d run to the front window and see Santa walking down my street. The best part of this all was that I knew he was coming to visit ME!

There’s not a Christmas that goes by without these warm memories being stirred. Uncle Don may well be my favorite male role model. Even when not in his Santa “uniform” he was a gregarious, generous soul. I adored the tenderness with which he treated my mother (his sister). I respected him for the way his personality gently fit his role as “patriarch” of my mother’s side of the family. There was always a hearty laugh ready to explode from way down deep.

Like Santa, Uncle Don will always live in my heart.

2009-12-04T19:19:00.003-06:00

HALLELUJAH

I did my best, it wasn't much
I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch
I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool you
And even though
It all went wrong
I'll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah

- God Bless Leonard Cohen

2009-11-08T20:41:00.002-06:00

HOME

The gift of brown clay
sun-baked; we share creation,
a body - a home.

2009-11-07T23:34:00.000-06:00

LISTEN

I walked a path through fallen leaves,
dragging my feet along the ground,
hearing God's voice in every shuffle,
holy laughter as we played.

2009-07-14T00:01:00.000-05:00

NIGHT SWEATS

I begged for sleep to come seduce me
but she scowled, passed me by.
Lessons to learn, she mocked;
delivering panic, my weak human
heart raced; closing my eyes I prayed
to live, to die, then live again.
Maybe this time I might get it right.

2009-07-13T18:40:00.005-05:00

LISTEN WITH THE EAR OF YOUR HEART

ears listen, eyes look,
hearing, seeing below ground
to the sacred source

- Christine Valters Paintner
(www.abbeyofthearts.com)

2009-06-18T20:38:00.004-05:00

SUMMER SOLSTICE

As sun scatters dark
She asks me to awaken
To the light in me.

-Christine Valters Paintner (http://www.abbeyofthearts.com/)

2009-04-10T14:45:00.005-05:00

BROKEN BODIES

Broken bodies moan in darkening streets,
the spectre of death surrounds me.
Shaken to my core, my voice is stilled
for words cannot express the heart
better than silence. A haunting wind pierces
my vain heart, clouds gather, while dirt
blinds my eyes, collects on my tongue,
stopping me cold; I listen. Choking
on tears that well up from my toes
I revel in the glory that lets me feel, really
feel I belong to this world today.
Young angels flock to my side.
I join them on their journey home.

2009-04-07T12:05:00.001-05:00

HONORING PACHAMAMA

Dancing firelight in bright moonshadows
Releasing pain long held within.
Singing songs of ancient people,
All my relations crying out to the sky.
Holy ground provides a safe place
For smoldering fires within deep hearts
Demanding truth, trust and faith
Engendering respect for ourselves and others
This shared experience of joy and celebration,
Renewal and blessing, returning to roots
Where wisdom lies beneath our feet
Ready to burst forth in rebirth.
Heralded by holy geese

greeting the dawn of my new day.

2009-04-06T17:35:00.005-05:00

THE UNFATHOMABLE DEPTH OF A LONG-DISTANCE FRIENDSHIP

About 5 years ago, I began an adventure, a friendship, unlike any other. I’m not a novice at friendships. Perhaps the earliest was a nearby one I developed as a toddler with another toddler who lived next door. She spoke baby Lithuanian and I spoke baby English and we seemed to get along famously, or at least that’s what our parents told us.

About a half-century later (why do I insist on going for those big poetic phrases?!), John and I met in Santa Fe, New Mexico. We were attending a weeklong workshop on Spiritual Writing. During registration, I found myself as the rare man in a maelstrom of people. I quickly scanned my class registration sheet and my eyes alighted on John’s name – whew! Now burned into my brain, I began my crusade to find the “Hello, I’m” tag that matched that name.

Tall, Ken-doll good looking with a Southern drawl – nothing, absolutely nothing in common with me, except that glass of Merlot he had in his hand. Noting his home town as being in Colorado, I sidled up to him interrupting a conversation already in progress, introduced myself and
quickly exited with a brief… “See you in class tomorrow.”

Some form of energy shifted in me about 10 years ago replacing a shy introverted guy with a sometimes loud extrovert. Seems that extrovert is encouraged to reveal himself when traveling to places where there’s a good chance he’ll meet people he’ll never see again in his life and who won’t be able to embarrass him with their remembrances of his past indiscretions. And so the table was set for the literal and figurative “bigger than life” Rich to take the stage.

Despite my “over-the-top” antics, John and I found some common ground. We took meals together, had long conversations, discovered some amazing commonalities and generally laid the foundation for a friendship that would last long after we left Santa Fe.

God Bless the Internet! There is hardly a workday that goes by without John and me checking in with one another in one fashion or another. It could be an item in either of our blogs (or even an embarrassing revelation from John’s wife’s blog, like the one where his daughter talked about his sexy butt!). We just feel the need to touch base. Sometimes corresponding about some silliness or other; other times confessing things that we can only confess to one another. Despite our infrequent face-to-face conversations, I always feel as if I am always just picking up the conversation wherever it was just left off. There is an ebb and flow, a natural rhythm that has taken over that just feels organic.

Recently, John had a business trip to Chicago that provided him with a little downtime that we could share together over a meal and a drive around the city. During our time, I was a little concerned about big silent places in our conversations. It seemed as if we’d run out of things to talk about. After a little silent reflection, I came to realize that silence is the deep place where friends let friends rest in each other’s company.

2009-04-02T12:05:00.005-05:00

ENCOUNTERS - SOUNDS

…while my head was gently placed by purposeful hands on an overstuffed down pillow. His hands softly brushed over my eyelids, encouraging me to close my eyes for a while. I listened closely for a clue to what would happen next. But the thief of time abducted my sense of place. I neither saw nor felt, neither heard nor smelled. When I eventually opened my eyes, he was still there sitting next to me on the bed – still buck naked – with one hand on the bed to prop himself up while with the other he stroked my hair, finger-combing the ash-colored shock that covered my now wrinkled forehead. Once again, I gazed upon his face and then I focused on his eyes. For the first time I sensed that we were both ready to speak.

My lips parted and I surprised even myself when I quietly asked, “Why naked?”

He answered by asking, “Why clothed?”

I slightly shrugged, then nestled in, as I heard another voice, this time inside my head say, “Welcome home!”

Those were the last words I heard.

Those were the first words I heard.

The End

2009-04-01T17:27:00.006-05:00

ENCOUNTER - SMELLS

Lifting my hand, he placed it firmly against his cheek and closed his eyes. This moment gave me the opportunity I’d hoped for as I deeply searched his face. His skin appeared thick and well-weathered, perhaps you’d call it leathery. But yet, my hand sensed a softness that belied my first impression. My sneak peek was over as quickly as it had begun as he slowly opened his now glimmering moist eyes. As he let go, my hand gradually dropped from the side of his face and landed in his lap where it soon found a home in his left hand. His right hand then reached for my left which he hefted over his right shoulder. He smiled. And so did I. Suddenly, my head became heavy and my neck felt unable to bear its weight. I let my head fall against that shoulder where I took a whiff of his red, goose-fleshed neck. We held one another once again, but this time I felt enveloped in a familiar world of touch and smell where I longed to stay a long time. My head shifted slightly with each breath and fell again into a crook worn down, I was sure, just for me. The smell of freshly laundered sheets that had been dried in the sunshine overwhelmed me. Soon I found myself wrapped in the luxury of that smell while my head was gently placed by purposeful hands on an overstuffed down pillow.

(to be continued...)

2009-03-31T17:13:00.004-05:00

ENCOUNTER - HANDS

And then he looked into my eyes…His eyes were youthful, no, that’s not right. His eyes were ageless and they looked at me with a focus that told me I was the only person he cared about right then. But, they were not intense – that would have concerned me. Instead, I felt an overwhelming sense of care. Words are not usually a problem for me but they felt so shallow compared to what I’d just sensed. Not knowing what to do next, I averted my eyes for a moment and looked at the bed. He glanced between us and we both slowly sat. Firmly seated, my eyes returned to his face, no, not his face but very specifically his eyes. The skin at the corners of his eyes began to crinkle, so I let my eyes wander in time to see a radiant smile appear on his face. I had no choice but to return the look for I felt compelled to accept and return this gift. I’ve no idea how long we sat like that. Neither of us seemed to have anything else to do but to be with one another. After some time, he slowly lifted his left hand and reached over to take my right hand in his. He looked at my hand as if he had never seen a hand before. He turned my hand over so that it was palm up. The lines in my palm were another source of interest as he traced the lines with a sturdy finger. Lifting my hand, he placed it firmly against his cheek and closed his eyes.

(to be continued...)

2009-03-30T20:21:00.006-05:00

ENCOUNTER - EYES

I went to Jesus’ house yesterday. No, not the one you’re thinking of. He gave me his address over my cell phone. I knew how to get there. I had to drive through some dicey neighborhoods, but I didn’t mind. Parking was at a premium, but I managed to find a spot. I spied the house – a little rundown. I saw the Palestinian flag in the window and a sign that said, “Stop the Killing.” Yep, this must be the place. He told me to just come on up when I got there – 2nd floor, take 3 flights of stairs – huh? Well, there wasn’t a doorbell and the door was locked, so I called him on my cell phone. “Come ‘round back, watch your step, 2nd floor, take 3 flights of stairs.” Again, huh? He said he’d be in the shower, so just come right in and make myself comfortable. Sure, enough, 2nd floor, 3 flights of stairs. I reached for the doorknob and it turned easily. I stepped in. I shrugged off my coat, placed it on a woven wicker trunk and since there weren’t any chairs, I sat on the edge of his bed. Before long, I heard the shower being turned off. The bathroom door opened and out he walked – buck naked. He wasn’t embarrassed and neither was I. He came over and opened his arms wide to share a hug. Seemed like the most natural thing in the word to do so I wrapped my arms around him. And then he looked into my eyes.

(to be continued...)

2009-03-24T22:39:00.002-05:00

SPRING

Winter’s thin days give way to spring’s plump buds,
Dark moist soil speaks to me, “Are you in love?”
I lift my face, to greet a new warm sun
and hear bright bird songs, falling from above.

Enveloped in the arms of the season
my heart responds by opening deeper,
prepared for rites demanded by nature
my dreams shall form freely and soar steeper.

The possible reigns as new days lengthen
becoming reality’s new vision
of a world where light can transfigure one’s life,
strengthening resolve to complete love’s mission.

2009-03-16T17:00:00.001-05:00

TRUTH

In one of the kingdom’s royal castles,
falling out, my soul separates
from my body, unwilling,
unable to move,
but light flowing, holding fast.
Cracked windows patched with tape,
dull blue-gray skies,
hills in the distance,
bare trees seen through mottled glass.
The black shoed,
blue jeaned,
white shirted messenger
with cocoa skin and darker eyes
who helps me;
to touch my pain,
live in the light,
walk at the edges.
Slain in the spirit
my body quakes with karmic release.
In unison with myself
once again,
I awake and find rose petals
covering my eyes.
The scent of kindness
resides in the truth.

2009-03-09T13:47:00.004-05:00

WORDS

I revel the travels I make in the world of words. When asked why, in particular, I am so fond of poetry, I usually reply that it's the "economy of words" that draws me to that writing style. But there are other aspects of poetry that appeal to me.

Just this past weekend, I picked up a very slim paperback of writings by Robert Bly titled "A Little Book on the Human Shadow." Robert Bly first came to popular fame with his book, "Iron John," which launched what in common vernacular is known as the "men's movement." The general public (at least those who have heard of him) usually associate him with an exaggerated vision of men going off into the woods together, screaming primally, dancing naked and banging on drums. All in all, exactly the type of person with whom I long to be associated!

I had the distinct honor and pleasure of attending a reading by Robert Bly a few years ago at the Unitarian Universalist Church in Oak Park, IL that was designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. Bly's reputation had preceded him and he didn't disappoint. This man does not suffer fools gladly. My Dominican friend, Brother Joe, had always entertained us with an impersonation of Robert Bly that was completely over-the-top and had us falling on the floor in laughter. The moment Robert Bly opened his mouth, I realized just how understated Brother Joe's impersonation really was. If it is possible to be a tender, wise, gruff, comical curmudgeon, than that person exists in Robert Bly.

In the Foreward of this recently purchased collection of Bly's writing, his editor, William Booth captures in a single paragraph the transformative nature of reading Robert Bly:

"What Robert Bly's poetry readings say in effect is, 'You must change your life.' To hear serious poems and resist all change is worse than a waste of time; it is dangerous. We can remember the warning from Jacob Boehme: 'Boehme has a note before one of his books in which he asks the reader not to go further and read the book unless he is willing to make practical changes as a result of the reading. Otherwise, Boehme says, the book will be bad for him..."

Think about it. Just sayin'.....

2009-03-06T16:57:00.001-06:00

FRIDAY’S FEAST PRAYER

Good Morning, Wisdom's Child,
I feel gluttonous with the glory of your words.
I am having trouble digesting them
as they are "too rich"
(as if that were possible).
I revel in their presence
as they perfume the air I breath.
You are a Master of words
as they spring forth from your heart
and explode through your lips.
I want to bathe in your words
until they reach every crevice of my skin
and absorb them through my pores
in an alchemical osmosis.
You make me crave more
as I don't think I can ever be satiated.

Amen.

2009-03-02T19:26:00.002-06:00

WINTER NIGHT

Winter crescent moon,
Pulsating stars, frozen tears,
Waiting for answers.

2009-02-28T00:05:00.001-06:00

RAW DOUBT

Tentatively asked,
“Do you think you could love me?”
Softly answered, “Yes.”

2009-02-27T20:31:00.003-06:00

ONLY KNOWN PHOTOGRAPH

OF GOD by Thomas Merton

This photograph, posted previously, has long spoken to me. Perhaps the season of Lent has brought it to mind yet again.

Consider...

2009-02-25T22:46:00.003-06:00

LEAVING

Dead from the neck up,
Not so bad a place to be.
Living in my heart.

(Poem inspired by photograph taken by and used with kind permission of Christine Valters Paintner of www.abbeyofthearts.com. Join Christine's Poetry Party now!)

2009-02-05T11:02:00.005-06:00

MIDWINTER

Twelve billion year old stardust
seeds, imbedded memories
remember. Tightly wound
paperthin heads poke through
the fertile ground of being
seeking sunlight with an instinct
born in ancient swirling cosmos,
dancing to the songs of angels,
stretching their faces to the heavens,

singing, praying “Adoramus Te.”

(poem inspired by and photo taken by

and used with kind permission of

Christine Valters Paintner. Join Christine's

Poetry Party every other Monday at

www.abbeyofthearts.com)

2009-02-01T21:39:00.003-06:00

DREAMCATCHER

Rearview mirror dreams
Catching hope as the wind blows
Mind the speed limit

2009-01-31T11:01:00.002-06:00

WING

Melting snow reveals
Single broken robin wing
We fly in circles

2009-01-22T11:52:00.007-06:00

WINTER VISION

A gray winter sky releases gentle snowflakes,
silence arriving on the edge of Sunday morning.
Sitting in my old red chair, I consider the fire
burning without, burning within.

The brush of an angel’s wings against my face
recalls the holy touch of one no longer near.
Closing my eyes, I deeply drink the vision
living well, dying whole.

Purple sunset celebrates the freely given day,
I stutter step as I near the marble sentinel,
unsure if a mere kiss will be enough to pay my fare
home , forever home.

(poem inspired by photograph taken by
and used with kind permission of Christine Valters Paintner.

Join her Poetry Party every other Monday at www.abbeyofthearts.com.)

2009-01-21T10:20:00.002-06:00

DANCING WITH ANGELS

I danced with angels this weekend
and now I’m paying the price.
These geriatric feet are dry and wrinkled
and a crack or two on the soles
are making me crankier than usual.
But when angels appear,
take your hand,
and lead you out onto the dance floor,
I dare you to say, “No.”

2008-12-31T20:16:00.009-06:00

NEW YEARS EVE

It seems particularly dark tonight. To me, this seems altogether fitting and proper for the last night of the year; it is as if the year has been fully spent. Light has recently become an ever present thought that I have carried with me throughout the past few weeks. But it is a deeper sense of light that has stayed with me - it is the light of friendships I've held in my heart - the light that carries us through difficult times and walks with us along our various paths. I just changed my profile statement for the first time since starting this blog to include the light of friendship as a force that accompanies me on my pilgrim path.

Very few of us have escaped 2008 unharmed in one form or another. Some of the pains have been economic, others spiritual, and still others emotional. During the just past holiday season, it became apparent to me more than ever that our connections to one another are what will hold us together in 2009 and beyond. Deep listening and deep care are the new currency of the day. They will see us through this difficult year ahead. Sometimes it takes a year like the one just past for us to realize that they have always been the only things that matter.

With gratitude for the lessons you have taught me, with joy for the laughter you have shared with me, I wish you, dear friends, the deep peace of the winter darkness with confidence that we share a common light within our hearts that will lead us to the eternal hope of a new day.

Fondly,

Rich

2008-12-19T09:44:00.014-06:00

FEW WORDS

In the end, that is what this season is all about...

those unplanned, unexpected moments that sneak up on us

and remind us who we really are.

2008-12-08T12:58:00.004-06:00

WINTER SUNSET

Light is the absence
Of darkness,
Darkness is the absence
Of light,
Via negativa
Opens our eyes
To see the bundle
Of colored pencils
God grasps each night
To color the sky
One last time
To fill our hearts
With awe
Before we begin
To illuminate
Our own dreams.

(poem prompted by photograph taken by
and used with kind permission of
Christine Valters Paintner
@ www.abbeyofthearts.com.
Join Christine's Poetry Party every other Monday!)

2008-12-03T13:32:00.005-06:00

EARLY WINTER DREAMS

Moonlight streams through shutter slats
delivering seeds of dreams
harvested by nascent spirits
yearning to be free.

I yield to sleep atop warm blankets
heated by my lazy felines,
conspiring with the otherworld
to seduce me into slumber.

Where do these pictures rise up from
of far’way lands and strange events?
But still a part of who I am
although I may not think so.

Dark words and darker stories strike
when I can least deflect them.
Their echoes during waking hours
can put a heart to test.

Truth and dreams, in early hours
meet to sear into my heart
lessons my mind won’t recognize:
experienced and learned.

2008-11-21T09:52:00.004-06:00

(photograph taken by James Melnychuk)

HOME TONIGHT

You asked if I’d be home tonight,
but I’m not sure how to answer
for the dreary chill of morning
and dank dew seeped into my head,
making a stew thicker than an early winter fog.
Although the noonday sun has cleared
the skies, my memory escapes me.
Hijacked by some thought pirate
for a ransom I can’t afford.
I’m not sure if I really even care.
Will I be home tonight?
Will I be?

2008-11-11T13:40:00.004-06:00

HOME

My body formed of clay from earth,
my bones from random rocks.
I yearn to feel the blush of sun,
the soaking rain, upon my face
and deep within my desert soul.
The love inscribed upon my heart
lies too within imperfect bones.
Hidden to protect weak flesh
from daggers of a mortal love.
I look to nature for eternal solace
for there I’ll find my rest,

my home.

(poem prompted by photograph taken by

and used with kind permission of

Christine Valters Paintner

@ www.abbeyofthearts.com.

Join Christine's Poetry Party every other Monday!)

2008-11-05T17:15:00.004-06:00

A PERSONAL ACCOUNT OF AN HISTORIC NIGHT FROM SOMEWHERE VERY CLOSE TO GROUND ZERO

I live in Chicago. Last Friday night, upon leaving work, I drove over to Lake Shore Drive, headed south on a gorgeous fall evening and exited at 57th Street. I passed the beautiful example of classical architecture, The Museum of Science and Industry, and continued heading west into the den of one way streets in the neighborhood called Hyde Park. This Chicago neighborhood is home to the prestigious University of Chicago and a collection of Divinity Schools and Theological Seminaries. It is also home of the Seminary Co-operative Bookstore of which I am a member (shareholder). Later that evening, I had tickets for a performance of the Guarneri String Quartet at Mandel Hall on the campus of the University of Chicago. Prior to the performance, I would share dinner with my former pastor at a wonderful Italian restaurant in Hyde Park named “Picolo Mondo.” But, since I arrived in Hyde Park early, I took a pleasurable stroll through the warren of narrow aisles of bookshelves deep in the bowels of a gargoyle-festooned brick building. All this is to give you a feel for the neighborhood where our President-Elect Barack Obama currently lives.

Last night, I had to attend my Old Testament class at Loyola University on Michigan Avenue until 6:45pm. In some ways it was good to be isolated from all the hoopla connected with the Presidential election. However, at 6:30pm, a “whoop” from one of the other classrooms down the hall piqued the curiosity of the entire class. Nevertheless, we continued plugging away at the lesser prophets.

I’d made arrangements earlier in the day to meet some friends at a bar on the north side of Chicago to drink, eat and watch the votes roll in. On my way to the bar, a friend of mine who had decided to “stick close to home” sent me a text message that read “I am getting nervous.” Despite being tuned in to National Public Radio on the drive over to the bar, I was convinced my “stick-close-to-home” friend had access to some private poll data that would eventually result in my having to find a new country to call home.

As is the case just about any night of the week on the trendy north side of the city, parking spaces were at a premium. The sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, combined with “parking” if not “road” rage, caused me some extreme distress. By the time I got to the bar, I was in need of major calming down. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness in the bar, I glanced up to the television screen only to see that no states had been “called” for either candidate yet. (Note to self: do something about the drama queen friend who gets nervous without reason.)

Finally some states with minimal Electoral College votes began falling into the red and blue categories. There were no discernable trends except that black suits on grey haired CNN anchormen look very good. Soon the watch on my wrist began moving closer to 8pm CST (it’s REALLY dark out!) and yet more polls would close. WOW! Minutes later, about 12 states were projected with a slight edge of 7 states going for Obama. However, those 7 states had much larger electoral vote totals than those for McCain. I texted “stick-in the-mud” to see if he felt any better. (He did.) It would be a long stretch until the next poll closing at 9pm, so it was time for a burger and a coke and a lot of jokes at the expense of Julie’s Irish boyfriend, Tony. (He claims the only word I spoke last night that he understood was “arse.”)

Soon 9pm rolled around and a disappointingly small number of states closed their polls. It seemed we were destined for a long night, yet again, even though Obama had a substantial lead in “called” states and electoral votes over McCain. Obama had just over 200 electoral votes. I spotted a newspaper section on the table where we sat and noticed an electoral map of the United States. Determining that California, Washington and Oregon polls would close at 10pm and that their combined electoral vote totals would put Obama over the top, I breathed a half-hearted sigh of relief.

Tired and distracted, I barely noticed when my watch neared 10pm. In what seemed like seconds, however, CNN’s explosive graphic “Barack Obama Wins Presidency” appeared on the television screen. All 3 western states had been “called” for Obama! A major “whoop” and a sustained round of applause erupted from the bar patrons. Soon pictures of celebrating Americans at Ebenezer Baptist Church in Atlanta, wildly ecstatic supporters in Grant Park in Chicago just a few miles away and citizens of Kenya jumping up and down in joy meshed into one joyous view of a world well-pleased with this result.

Modern political courtesy (if one can use those two words in the same sentence) dictates that the victor should not make an appearance until after the losing candidate concedes. John McCain, et al soon appeared on a stage outside the Biltmore Hotel in Phoenix, Arizona. I listened intently. Who was this man speaking these words? This was not the erratic, awkward, spiteful man who had campaigned and slurred and “that-one’d” Barack Obama. John McCain spoke words in a manner befitting the strong, patriotic, service-rich public servant that he is. I figuratively wept that the political campaign season had morphed this man into such a caricature. It was simply one of the most moving concession speeches I’d ever heard.

In what seemed like an interminable wait, my friends and I sat in mostly silence in the middle of a rowdy bar, taking measure of what had happened with the election of Barack Obama. The television screen filled with images of a diverse crowd of people in Grant Park. At one point, the camera settled upon the image of a very worn, much older Jesse Jackson with moist eyes and tear stains down his cheeks holding an American flag. Could he have ever dared to dream that 40 years after standing on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel in Memphis, Tennessee seconds after Martin Luther King, Jr. had been shot to death that he would have the opportunity to stand among tens of thousands of fellow citizens stunned speechless by the election of a young African –American man to the office of President of the United States?

Obama’s speech was yet to come. My mind turned to my friend and neighbor, Lance, whose job as a sergeant with the Chicago Police Department involves, to a significant degree, security, crowd control for major public events. This would be the largest and most important event he had been assigned to since moving to that area of the Police Department. I worried for him and the burden he carried to make tonight’s event appear as relaxed and natural and carefree as possible.

Soon Barack, Michelle, Sasha and Malia appeared on stage and everyone in Grant Park and at the bar erupted in applause. Barack began speaking and while his words were well-considered and deep and true, they also gave me pause, even while listening to consider the significance of what I was seeing. It was as if I was watching two television channels at the same time. Despite my joy at his words, the harsh reality of my concern for his safety, exacerbated by my knowledge of Lance’s work, wished for him to cut his speech short and to go home and enjoy his victory. A definite shift had occurred in the evening. While still joyous at Barack’s victory, the old History teacher in me was taking stock of the perspective of time, as well as realizing the major work we all have ahead of ourselves.

Julie and Tony had left a bit earlier, so only Brian, Philip and myself were left. It was getting late; we all had work to go to in the morning. Brian had ridden his bike over to the bar, so we said our goodbyes with sincere hugs. Philip had taken a cab, so I offered him a ride home. We began walking toward my car. I took one last look back at the bar where we had lived through an historic night. The bar’s name was simple, and one I’ll always remember. It was: the Bar on Buena. It's all good!

2008-10-30T18:51:00.003-05:00

ANCESTORS

Grief long past, only memories stir,
enhanced as I sit before a mirror.
My pale blue eyes, a heritage,
along with paler skin. Visions
of dark waves, an immigrant ship,
crossing wide miles carrying
a mother, father and two sons.
Buffeted by waves and fears,
comforted by dreams and hopes,
promises of a new land.
War was over, a chance to start anew.
Searching for familiar faces,
open arms of welcome;
a man’s feet began to dance,
a woman’s cackling laugh erupted.
A joyful warm reunion
on foreign soil that became
an eternal place to slumber,
while a bright blue bird bids
them rest with a lullaby.

(Poem inspired by photograph taken by and used with kind permission

of Christine Valters Paintner - be sure to visit Christine's Poetry Parties at

www.abbeyofthearts.com)

2008-10-21T21:32:00.005-05:00

HONORING THE INNER VOICE RETREAT

CAMP RONORA

WATERVLIET, MICHIGAN

OCTOBER 17th - 19th

OM MANI PADME HUM

2008-10-12T21:49:00.002-05:00

"GOLDENGROVE" by Francine Prose

I do a lot of cruising around the various web pages of NPR these days. Their news is good and the reporting solid, but considering the state of the presidential campaign (not to mention the economy), I find I'm spending most of my time on the books and music pages these days. Very few books make it to the top ten list and even fewer are noticed by Oprah. NPR manages to find some buried treasures every once in a while and that's what keeps me coming back.

Just last week, I stumbled across the NPR story about a book titled “Goldengrove” written by Francine Prose. Briefly, it is the story of a family suffering through the loss of a teenage daughter/sister due to drowning. The author conveys subtle as well as obvious emotions through a masterful use of language. I won’t reveal much more of the story. I recommend going to the NPR site as linked above for more information.

The story is told from the viewpoint of the drowned girl’s younger teenage sister. Now, as a more than middle-aged man, one might question how I’m coping with this point of view. Just fine, thanks for asking. You see, I picked up this book with ulterior motives. Don’t tune out…stick with me here.

Thirty-six years ago, when I was twenty, my adult brother drowned. It would take too much time and too much space to convey all of the information surrounding this time, but suffice it to say, I felt and still feel that I was never allowed the time to grieve that loss. Those of you who have seen a therapist will be familiar with the phrase, “work through a wound.” I have yet to meet a therapist or anyone who has been in therapy that can precisely tell me HOW to “work through a wound.” I have asked if it is enough to simply “touch” that loss. The non-answer I get is: “We all have our own ways of working things out.” I’m guessing this is what they teach therapists to say as an alternative to shrugging their shoulders.

I haven’t been to a therapist in over 4 years. I decided this particular therapist had taken me “as far as he could.” (You see, we, as patients, have developed our own nonsense language!)

But, after having read the review of the book as well as an excerpt, something resonated in me. There was something about the language and phrasing that made me feel at home; it made me feel as if this author had an understanding of what it feels like to be a surviving sibling, a surviving child. Grieve comes with many masks and only experience tells us which masks are required at which time with which people.

I’m only 100 pages into this book right now, but I felt it important to share this discovery with others. The sooner we learn that masks only work for so long, the better we will all be.

2008-10-09T00:01:00.002-05:00

DUSK/COMPLINE

At dusk when earth
releases colors
to the sky,
and trees and homes
fall into shadows,
our eyes rejoice
in bursts of grace and glory.
Softly birds sing compline
hymns to call us
to great silence.
On our knees
we pray for sleep
and easy death
to sooth our weary,
earthly bones.
The heavens release
some scattered drops
of rain from wispy clouds,
a baptism
as we enter night,
returning to our sacred womb.
A pillow prepared
to hold my head,
lies on the ground
to beckon me.
In morning I’ll awake
to see the colors
of Eden’s dawn.

2008-10-08T00:01:00.005-05:00

LIBRARY OF HEAVEN

Snuggled up close, to one another,
cover to cover, page to page.
Word to word, cloistered together,
ever ready, wisdom to engage.

Birthed in light and fertile air,
a dream to every willing heart.
A never, but ever, changing vision
to each eager guest impart.

Yellowed pages comfort fingers
longing for a sense of time,
smells of ancient ink arise
lifting words and prayers sublime.

O hear, the sound of one book closing,
as an accent to new thought,
freshly given to the world,
consider what God hath wrought.

(poem inspired by photograph taken by and used with kind permission of Christine Valters Paintner of www.abbeyofthearts.com)

2008-10-07T09:27:00.011-05:00

THE FALL OF THE LABYRINTH OAK

Inside, outside,
upside, down,
memory of growth,
longing for renewal,
stones, flames,
shadow, sun,
wide oak tree arms embrace and shelter.
Hanging chimes, a swinging monk,
torches, candles, acorn shells.
Leaves crunch, weeds prosper,
distant birds call us to prayer.
Dappled sunlight, breathing deeply
Earth’s music settles over me.
Far winds cause leaves to chatter,
speaking names, butterflies leap,
searching for unspent blossoms.
Sagging limbs grip dying leaves,
grand old trunk, moss-covered bark.
Dead leaves caught in summer’s spider webs,
dancing, longing to fall to home.
Filtered light slashes through forest timbers,
rage against cruel winter’s return.

2008-10-06T12:27:00.006-05:00

MEN WHO SHARE

Gently flowing shallow water

passing by the river banks

where fifteen solid men have gathered

to share their secret souls.

At sunrise, a primal fire rages

awakening our deepest desire

to tell our stories, to make them part

of our private weekend’s legend.

With talking stick, we honor silence,

listening for the spaces where

each man encounters private dreams,

praying for some recognition.

Learning how we share our journeys,

we gather strength to walk alone

knowing now in hidden hearts

that others share our glory and pain

2008-10-03T10:00:00.003-05:00

OLD MEN SINGING

This Sunday morning, I’ll sit up close
and listen to the old men sing.
These high-pitched hymns weren’t written
for those sweet baritone and
thick, rich bass voices.
Maybe they could reach those notes
when as boys their voices squealed,
letting go of the tire tree-swing
as they pitched into the river.
But those days you couldn’t get a pair
of Sunday shoes on those calloused feet
that ran all summer barefoot.
Once they realized the pretty girls
got gussied up with lacey gloves and
tiny white purses, the boys struggled
into starched white shirts and fancy ties,
craning their necks to catch a peek
at the new girl in town. But now I’m content
to remember those days as a smile
breaks out on my face each time I hear
“How Great Thou Art” sung by old men
auditioning for Saint Peter.

2008-10-02T11:53:00.004-05:00

OLD WOMEN SINGING

This Sunday morning, I’ll sit outside
and listen to the old women sing.
Falsetto voices mix with raspy croaks
to tell a deeper story. In their voices,
I hear the whoops of young girls
skipping rope, giggling when
a cute boy passes. The soft lilt
of the first words of flirtation
turning to scorn when suitors
turn away. The breathy excitement
as “I will” becomes “I do”
and a voice that quickly sings a gentle lullaby.
The 3am whispers that plead for rest
while another life grows in her belly.
Tears of joy and anger when it all
becomes too much. A hushed prayer
to lift this burden if only for a while
answered by the cries of an infant
child of her own daughter. Sitting in a pew
on Sunday morning, holding this new
life about to be washed in the water, smiling
as together they listen to the old women sing.

2008-10-01T00:01:00.001-05:00

GARDEN OF EDEN

Blue moon casts a shadowed glow
over ground that young ones tread,
seeking truths, binding their hearts
to stories yearning to be lived.

Two lovers breath at the edge of the world,
arm in arm, they pledge devotion
sharing one heart eternally.
Bright stars nod their assent.

Each evening they return to sleep,
renewing vows in barren fields.
Consecrated by a holy leaf
shed from the tree of life.

Poem inspired by photograph taken by and used with permission of
Christine Valters Paintner of www.abbeyofthearts.com

2008-09-30T14:17:00.002-05:00

NO POETRY YET,
JUST SOME GUT WRENCHING HONESTY

When do I round the corner and start finding that I have fewer things to do...or is death what happens when your body just can't keep up with the continually increasing number of tasks at hand? My body is ready for the tasks to lighten up, but my ego isn't. I am home after a whirlwind 3 day business trip to Carmel, Indiana which included, at the hotel where I was staying, the arrest last Friday morning of someone for allegedly being a pimp for an Indianapolis woman. Amazing.

Anyway, on Saturday morning I had lunch with Rick, one of the fellas from the Male Spirit group I belong to that is led by Brother Joe. Rick isn't going to this weekend's retreat but he is thinking of going to the Cleveland retreat in January (as I am). It was a good time being with Rick. We formed a very quick bond about 6 years ago at the first retreat I attended. Even though months can go by without contact with one another, when we DO hook up, it is as if we'd just seen each other the day before. Rick is a really sweet gentle guy who is a wonderful listener. I think I serve the same role for him. It’s good.

Sunday was a strange day. Very overcast and about 15 degrees cooler than Saturday. I think my seasonal affected disorder kicked in and it took me forever to get motivated. I had about 9 loads of laundry to get done and I wanted it done as quickly as possible so I took everything to the Laundromat. Laundromats are always a depressing place for me. After I had all my machines loaded, I began people watching. There was a large young Hispanic mother sitting with her 8 year old son as he was practicing his reading. Apparently he wasn't doing all that well because I saw his mom all up in his face which he refused to lift up as he was crying so hard his shoulders were shaking. This took me back to some painful moments in my childhood and remembering what it felt like to not be able to do something your parents thought you should have been able to do. In a few moments I saw the boy lift his head as he saw a glimmer of hope that there was something he could say or do that would redeem him in his mother's eyes. I remember well grasping at those straws. They just reinforced a sense of hopelessness and futility. Fortunately, I was near the end of my time at the Laundromat and I got to escape fairly quickly, but not without seeing the title of the book that caused the tears. It was "Captain Underpants and the Attack of the Talking Toilets." My God, I couldn't get to my car quickly enough.

So, I got home and started putting the clean laundry away. Then I sat and mindlessly watched some television. I have no idea what shows were on. All I remember is that within a 10 minute period there were 3 IAMS pet food commercials with incredibly cute dogs and cats doing incredibly cute things that brought tears to my eyes once again. A phone call from a not-quite-so-sympathetic friend confirmed by misogynistic sense of being menopausal. And then it hit me. Due to rushing out of the house on Saturday morning for breakfast and a lazy Sunday morning, I had inadvertently forgotten to take my medications (which include an anti-depressant). I quickly reached for the pillbox and went to lie in bed. I woke up an hour later and found that the train to Weepyville had apparently taken off without me. I was feeling much better.

It kind of felt good to be able to cry. I wasn't ashamed by it. I just didn't like the sense of feeling sad. I'm at work now. Sad, but in a different way. That's OK.

2008-09-18T17:05:00.003-05:00

LOST AND FOUND

A stone falls
on the ground
at my feet.
Unsure of its source,
I pick it up
and hold it
in my hand.
Rounded, grey and white
with specks of pink and black,
I roll it around,
feeling its smooth surface
well-worn by rain.
Even as I toss it in my hand
to gauge its heft,
I feel connected to the earth.
Rubbing it against my face
the coolness soothes me.
Lost boy home
dances in his barefeet.

2008-09-16T21:12:00.006-05:00

MUSIC

For a while now I’ve been convinced that somewhere in the ether is a constantly playing soundtrack that, if we’re lucky, we get to tune it to every once in a while. There is a particular well-known singer whose performance I was fortunate enough to catch on television about 10 years ago. When she completed singing, despite my being home alone, I spoke aloud the words: “That, is the Voice of God.” The singer was Aretha Franklin. She had just finished singing “Nessun Dorma,” a short operatic piece at the Grammy awards. Ms. Franklin was asked, at the last minute, to step in for Luciano Pavarotti who, as he did so many times in his life, cancelled his appearance. The Queen of Soul serenely walked on stage, captivated and stunned the world with her incredible talent, bowed and gracefully walked off to riotous applause.

But, there are other times when I’m sure I’ve also tuned in to the eternal soundtrack. They are bittersweet moments when I am in awe of beauty and the sound of music feels as if a horsehair bow is being drawn across my heart. Usually, there is no voice; there is simply the sense that what I am hearing is a gift from a perfect world. Perhaps I am fortunate enough to be in one of those “thin places” where the sacred easily comes to us.

I just used the word “awe.” In current world politics, this word has been stolen and its meaning twisted, but I redeem the word now and restore it to its proper context. A couple of weekends ago, I was blessed to attend a concert of Sacred Music. The event was held at Unity Temple in Oak Park, IL, a beautiful standing tribute to the work and life of architect Frank Lloyd Wright. This special night began with a short introduction spoken by author, Caroline Myss. During the introduction, Caroline explained the reasons for her involvement with the Bellissima Opera Troupe who were performing this concert. During this brief talk, she offered the explanation that there is a unique quality in humans that drives us to search for awe. These were the perfect words to lead us into the evening’s music. But, they have stayed with me as I revelled in their gift.

Mystics are well-acquainted with awe resulting from their direct personal experiences of God. However, awe is not reserved for a chosen few. It is available to all of us. Through the gift of recognizing the presence of God within each other, we are prepared to be awed by one another, when we pay attention.

2008-09-14T10:22:00.003-05:00

1:34AM

I don't usually post entries of material from other sources, but I feel the need to make an exception. It's been a darkly overcast, soggy, humid weekend. For some time now, my moods have been highly influenced by the weather and so sleep came fitfully last night. I couldn't take lying in the bed sleeplessly much longer, so at 1:34am, I got out of bed and searched for some reading material. I didn't want to dive back into a novel so I sought out a journal or magazine. I came across my last copy of Alive Now, an anthology published by The Upper Room Ministries. This is the last copy in my subscription. I found the articles a little too "light" for my spiritual reading. HA! Maybe it was the time of the day, maybe it was the weather, maybe it was my weary state - whatever it was, I found words that pierced my heart:

A COVENANT PRAYER IN THE WESLEYAN TRADITION

I am no longer my own, but thine.

Put me to what thou whilt, rank me with whom thou wilt.

Put me to doing, put me to suffering.

Let me be employed by thee or laid aside for thee,

exalted for thee or brought low by thee.

Let me be full, or let me be empty.

Let me have all things, let me have nothing.

I freely and heartily yield all things

to thy pleasure and disposal.

And now, O glorious and blessed God,

Father, Son and Holy Spirit,

thou art mine, and I am thine. So be it.

And the covenant which I have made on earth,

let it be ratified in heaven. Amen.

2008-09-11T21:25:00.006-05:00

PATIENCE

I will sit here
and you will stay
behind your solid door.
I will wait for you patiently,
sure that you cannot see
my eager eyes, hear
my pounding heartbeat, taste
my anticipation, feel
my trembling legs.
The doorknob turns slowly
and I hear you speak:
“C’mon, let’s go for a walk.”
You are my Master
and You always know
the words I long to hear.

(poem inspired by photo taken by and used with permission of

Christine Valters Paintner of www.abbeyofthearts.com.)

2008-09-03T18:45:00.000-05:00

AND SO

And so, as the gentle waters call me
I shall not look back.
Through fading light I struggle
to keep my spent heart focused
on holy reunion with my soul
and those with whom I’ll spend
eternity in song and praise.
Darkness holds no terror
for he shall be my friend in the deep
and when the time arrives,
he’ll hold me in his arms
and slowly rock me;
sweet solace at last.

2008-08-25T22:08:00.012-05:00

SOUND OF HOPE

Burnt out mailbox at the corner,
reminder of our feeble words.
Crushed diaries litter sidewalks,
manna for dark and hungry birds.
Scraps of beauty die a thousand deaths
while ugliness rides in herds.
Darkness creeps, fitful tossing,
dreadful dreams, nascent hopes absurd.
When carried brightly on gentle breezes,
whispers of hope played by fingers curved.
There will be music despite everything.

(photos taken by and used with permission of

Christine Valters Paintner from www.abbeyofthearts.com )

2008-08-22T21:08:00.010-05:00

CANYON HIKE

A sandy footpath slowly rises,
slyly diverting my eyes and mind
from thoughts of the strength I’ll need
to complete this midday summer hike.
Last autumn’s leaves mix with sand,
crunching as I step, then leap, dodging
shallow roots that threaten to trip me.

A stone labyrinth distracts me
as I begin my inner journey.
Above, red, yellow and orange cliffs
dazzle with their light and beauty,
while silver and green scrub and wild sage
fool me into believing I’m in a garden.
An occasional swig of water
keeps my parched throat open
to proclaim the treasures ‘round each corner.

Down I head, into the canyon,
smelling present water, teasing me
it remains hidden. Stilling my tongue,
I hear the delicate sound
of a cool, refreshing stream of water
tumbling over sandstone rocks.

My breathing becomes labored
despite the slow pace as I step
farther into the deep canyon glen.
Blessed tall pines filter light
and heat from the midday sun,
just as my overheated brain
conjures a solid door,
breaking my pilgrim heart
and stealing my shallow breath.

Only a few minutes farther to finish,
but this spot invites me to stay,
to sit, to rest, to give up false goals.
My body speaks in urgent pain,
craving unseen water.
Let me lie among these rocks,
dream and gather spirit strength.
A journey just begun.

2008-08-13T21:04:00.003-05:00

POINT OF VIEW

A bored seven-year old
picking at peeling paint,
flicking the chips down below.
looking over the edge,
and watching his spit drop,
trying to hit the sewer cover.
In this land of power lines,
with clothes lines beneath,
church spires and flags at eye level,
surveying his kingdom,
the roofs of his subjects
and dreaming of flying away -
escaping from an attic window.

2008-08-07T05:14:00.006-05:00

NEW LOVE

When I sit with you awhile
and look into your light blue eyes,
I want to ask, “How are you, really?”
But I sense that knot in your throat
will keep the words from spilling forth
as easily as I’d like to hear them.

This is new love and you hide
behind your heart because it hurts
too much to take the chance again.
So give me your hand and let me
simply hold it, and you’ll know
I’ll wait as long as you need.

I want to show you
how I feel each time I see you,
how my soul lifts up,
and my breathing goes shallow
as I bow and shake my head in disbelief
every time you look at me and smile.

But I know you’re far too smart
to ask me for those words
whose echoes fall upon the floor.
Sit with me and you’ll see
the transforming power of love
to overcome the darkness of self-doubt.

2008-08-06T00:04:00.000-05:00

AGE

Each day, I awake older
and find my friends have become smarter.
Is it because they’ve grown wiser
or have I?

2008-08-04T00:04:00.000-05:00

SIMPLE BLESSINGS

I choose to stay beneath the cottonwoods
whose tall strong arms inspire me to sit
upright on the ground, to close my eyes and
let the wind wash over me for a while.

And when I sit, the clear vision comes of
soft green fields whose blades of grass will comfort
me as I lie down, I’ll hear the sounds of
sacred songs sung in rhythm with my heart.

The animals of this land now gather
sharing nature’s joy through simple presence
with this humble servant; tomorrow we’ll
return, a blessing to one another.

2008-08-01T00:07:00.000-05:00

PURE GRACE

2008-07-31T00:02:00.001-05:00

“I AM GOING TO THE FATHER”

– John 14

Restless steps lead me afar
from ocean shore to desert hills.
Not always sure of my next step
I trust the one who leads me.

Kindred spirits along the way
feed my soul with gentle words
assuring me this path is true
that I am not alone.

Despite dark nights and troubled days
I’ll bravely walk through shadowed valleys,
confident the road continues
for I am going to the Father.

2008-07-30T00:04:00.001-05:00

FOR YOU

“So that you may be filled with the fullness of God.” – Ephesians 3

Close your eyes, rest
and soon, if you watch
and listen, you will see
and hear, a grace prepared
just for you.

Pay attention, for the bugs
who crawl, the butterflies
who flit, the hummingbirds
who rapidly beat their wings,
have been placed here
just for you.

May the green alfalfa fields,
red and yellow mountains,
towering white clouds,
green trees with shimmering leaves,
illuminate your path,
so that you may be filled
with the fullness of God.

Amen.

2008-07-29T00:04:00.002-05:00

MORNING PRAYER

Half-sleeping souls do gather
to share a chilly morning prayer,
singing chants to bless the day
and welcome a new chance.

Raspy voices on the prowl
for notes that will elude them.
But the power of heart’s intent,
earns them deep forgiveness.

Rhythmic drumming links our hearts
as now we sit in silence,
awaiting Creator’s bright morning gift
to warm expectant faces.

Glory peeks above the mesa
bringing hope to dormant dreams.
Living in the space within us
where we dare to sing.

2008-07-28T00:09:00.001-05:00

“THE GLORY OF LIFE IS YOURS…”

I sit in holy circle,
half in, half out,
half dark, half light.
Where do I belong?

Pedernal looms to the east,
shadows of rain between us,
light boldly strikes the mesa.
Where do I belong?

Searching for the empty space
where faith can change me.
If I sit and listen,
I’ll find my path home.

2008-07-25T00:03:00.000-05:00

DESERT HUMMINGBIRD

Healing hummingbird,
reminder of ancestors,
drinking deeply of rich nectar
yielded by willing flowers,
sharing grace,
making us whole.

2008-07-24T00:53:00.000-05:00

CELTIC SPIRITUALITY AND THE DESERT

The workshop/retreat I attended last week was held at Ghost Ranch in Abiquiu, New Mexico and was affiliated with the Casa del Sol, a newly formed Spirituality and Retreat Center.

CASA DEL SOL MISSION STATEMENT

Casa del Sol is called to be:

A space in which to be still and listen

for the voice of Godthat provides guidance to the spirit.

An open-hearted setting

where seekers find refreshment

and a heightened awareness of the landscape as teacher.

A spot of simplicity and beauty where the heartbeat of Ghost Ranch

is felt along with the presence

of God in all aspects of creation.

A community of all creation,

worshipping God as a prayerful center of Ghost Ranch;

an incubator in the service of God’s creation.

Celebrating Christ and Creation as one,

coming from the heart of God.

CASA DEL SOL HISTORY

On May 3, 2006, Casa del Sol opened as a Spirituality and Retreat Center — a contemplative retreat space in the high desert of Abiquiu, New Mexico. The Rev. Dr. J. Philip Newell is committed to being the resident Companion/Theologian for the Casa del Sol Spirituality and Retreat Center at Ghost Ranch.

J. Philip Newell is a poet, a scholar and a teacher. Formerly Warden of Iona Abbey in the Western Isles of Scotland, he is currently Writer/Theologian for The Cathedral of the Isles on Cumbrae. He is internationally acclaimed for his work in the field of Celtic spirituality, including his best known titles Listening for the Heartbeat of God and his poetic book of prayer Sounds of the Eternal. He is an ordained Church of Scotland minister with a passion for ecumenical and interfaith dialogue. Canadian by birth, he lives in Edinburgh with his family where he undertook his doctoral research in Celtic Christianity. Since then he has played a leading role on both sides of the Atlantic in the re-birthing of a creation spirituality for today. His call is for a future church to return to its basic heritage of finding Christ in Creation.

Ali Newell is a Church of Scotland minister who works as a spiritual advisor for the Ignatian Center of Spirituality in Glasgow. She and Philip have four children and live in Edinburgh.

Together, they teach and hold seminars and is in residence with their family each year during the month of July. They continue to help guide Casa del Sol in listening to the deep spiritual longings of those who journey to the high desert. In this process they are helping to lay the foundation stones for a “community” in the high desert.

THE CASA DEL SOL PRAYER OF JESUS

Ground of all being,
Mother of Life,
Father of the Universe,
your name is sacred, beyond speaking.
May we know your presence,
may your longings be our longings
in heart and in action.
May there be food for the human family today
and for the whole earth community.
Forgive us the falseness of what we have done
as we forgive those who are untrue to us.
Do not forsake us in our time of conflict
but lead us into new beginnings.
For the light of life, the vitality of life, and the glory of life
are yours now and for ever.
Amen.

2008-07-23T01:02:00.000-05:00

ANAM CARA

The expansive vistas of Abiquiu, New Mexico are only vivid memories now as I sit in my cubicle at work. Last week was a wonderful time of learning and reflecting and listening. To my great benefit, I had time to listen to my heart. One of the messages that came to me related to friendship – deep friendship. I am blessed with many friends. Some I speak to daily, others less frequently. But I have 2 unique friends that I thought of while I was away. I’ve known them both for only the past 2 or 3 years. In fact, they both entered my life around the same time. Here’s what makes them unique: Buck and I have only spent about 10 days in each other’s company over the length of our friendship. Hudson and I have never met face-to-face.

One thing we have in common is that we all blog. I encourage you to visit each of their blogs: Buck writes at thedirtyshame.blogspot.com. Hudson writes at hudsonmackenzie.blogspot.com. Buck and I met (face-to-face) at a creative artist workshop in Santa Fe, New Mexico about 3 years ago. Hudson and I met (online) by way of Christine (www.abbeyofthearts.com) who I met at that same workshop. Despite our continuing friendships by way of our blogs, it is not the inherent geekiness of that connection that holds us as friends. What I find in Buck and Hudson goes far deeper than the clichéd “kindred soul” label. It is probably best described by the term “anam cara” (see author John O’Donoghue) which means “soul friend.” It is no coincidence that thoughts about friendship sprang up during my time in Abiquiu. The workshop I attended was based upon Celtic Spirituality. The term “anam cara” is Celtic in origin.

Over the last 5 or 6 years, I’ve been involved in a variety of retreat and workshop activities that is known as “men’s work.” Usually occurring over the span of a weekend, men gather together and re-learn how to be men among other men. These weekends have brought me to a place where I have learned to cherish the ability to be myself in every way in the company of another man without the baggage that our culture puts on us. The result is the development of real relationships based upon an appreciation of our uniqueness and the gifts we bring to those relationships. The most cherished gift we can (and do) bring is honesty. Buck and Hudson are the two most honest people I “know.”

In the case of each man, I feel completely free to confide my shadow thoughts and fears. I share my little life victories, my doubts, my aspirations and my faith. Each of these men give me the gift of listening. This may be the closest I’ll ever get to experiencing unconditional love.

I know that some might consider this to be a sterile 21st century phenomenon that is risk-free based on the lack of personal contact. If you believe this, nothing I write will convince you otherwise. But, I know, way down deep, that type of relationship would not have continued any longer than a season. Sure, much of our contact is through reading one another’s postings on our blogs and a quick comment or two in return. I believe, however, that we read each other’s blogs within the context of the man we know, filling in a few more details along the way. But then there are times when we are compelled to write “offline” (so to speak) to go deeper. It is during those times that we become true “anam cara.” In many ways, I know these men far better than I know members of my own family. We have the courage to be ourselves and allow ourselves to be loved for who we are. That is NOT an insignificant accomplishment.

I am truly blessed.

2008-07-22T01:26:00.003-05:00

MY GEORGIA O'KEEFFE MOMENT

SKY ABOVE CLOUDS IV, Georgia O'Keeffe, 1965

ABIQUIU, NEW MEXICO - JULY 17, 2008

2008-07-21T21:18:00.003-05:00

SHEDDING THE SANDALS

I've returned from the desert. Time to shed the sandals and put up the walking stick.