Archive for the ‘poetry’ Category

Door 17: In Which We Knock from the Inside

December 17, 2007

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One of my absolute favorite things about my vocation is getting to witness what emerges when folks are given time, tools, and space to reflect on their lives. In retreat and workshop settings, I always make some collage supplies available as one possible avenue for reflection. Collage is great because anyone who made it through kindergarten has the necessary skills to do it. Cut. Tear. Paste. Voilà! Even folks who tend to freak out in the face of an invitation to create are sometimes able to engage the collage process, which I work to make as user-friendly as possible (and I make it clear that doing art is always an invitation, not a requirement).

At a workshop I did a bunch of years ago, one of the participants picked up a few pieces of paper and spent the next bit pacing and chanting, “I’m a linear thinker, I’m a linear thinker…” Eventually he settled in and created an amazing collage. The amazing part lay largely in his willingness to enter into the process, in which he found himself able to think in a different way about something that was going on in his life.

My favorite collage exercise involves inviting folks to think about their lives as a landscape. I ask them to reflect on their commitments, their relationships, whatever makes up the terrain of their days, and then to create a collage that evokes something of that landscape. Often I give them just a small, 4 x 6 piece of paper for the background, to make it as manageable as possible for them.

It’s amazing what a landscape people can fit into 24 square inches.

I like doing a quick process of lectio divina with folks who have created a collage. A little collagio divina, if you will. (Lectio collagina is probably more accurate but is more cumbersome on the tongue.) In much the same way that we can read a written text, we can also read the visual text of a piece of art, whether it’s something we’ve created or a piece that we’ve encountered. I invite them to silently ponder their collage as I offer a few questions. One of the questions I ask is this:

When you turn your collage—your landscape—in a different direction, what do you see?

Things turn up in collages that we’re not always aware of at the time, and getting a different perspective helps us notice these things.

I’ve been thinking about landscape-of-life and perspective lately as I’ve been pondering the Advent texts. The Advent lections are full of God’s reversals: swords into plowshares, spears into pruning hooks, wolf living with the lamb, cow and bear grazing together, the desert blossoming, the blind seeing, the lame leaping, streams flowing through the desert, the powerful brought down, the lowly lifted up, the hungry filled with good things. God reverses not simply for the sake of reversing—though one might hope that it would help keep us on our toes and increase our ability to recognize and receive God’s surprises—but to bring about restoration, a theme that we hear echoed in this week’s lection from Psalm 80:

Restore us, O God;
let your face shine, that we may be saved. (Ps. 80.3)

It seems especially fitting to think about reversals on this day. It’s the anniversary of the death of the Persian poet Rumi, a mystical Sufi poet who lived in Afghanistan between 1207-1273. In the Sufi tradition, the night of December 17 is called the Wedding Night, celebrating Rumi’s union with the Divine Beloved.

As a poet, Rumi delights in turning things on their heads, shaking up our assumptions and tightly-held beliefs, seeing what different perspective he can stir up in himself and his hearers. In one poem (or, rather, in a version of it by Coleman Barks, who, though he’s often called a translator, does not himself read Rumi’s language and is more accurately termed an interpreter of Rumi’s work; a brilliant one, but it’s important to remember that we’re getting a very filtered version of Rumi. But that’s another story…) As I was saying, in one poem, Rumi speaks of how he has lived on the lip of insanity, knocking on a door, then realizes: “I’ve been knocking from the inside!” (Copyright considerations prevent me from including the entire poem here, though I’ve managed to allude to practically the whole thing, but I have no compunction about inviting you to another site where you can read it: visit World Prayers.)

Is there any place you’ve been pushing intently, when pulling back might clear the path? What helps you gain perspective, a different view of the landscape of your life? Is there any piece that needs turning, considering from a different angle, in order to better see what’s there?

Sometimes the reversal that we need, the shift in perspective, is one that we have to find within us rather than looking everywhere around us.

On this Advent day, on this Wedding Night, may you open a door from the inside.

Posted in Advent, Christmas, art, lectio divina, poetry, religion | 2 Comments »

Door 15: Another Name for Patience

December 15, 2007

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Today I’m hanging out with James. The Revised Common Lectionary turns our attention toward his letter for tomorrow’s Epistle reading. In the selected lection (James 5.7-10), James tells us this:

Be patient, therefore, beloved, until the coming of the Lord. The farmer waits for the precious crop from the earth, being patient with it until it receives the early and the late rains. You also must be patient. Strengthen your hearts, for the coming of the Lord is near. Beloved, do not grumble against one another, so that you may not be judged. See, the Judge is standing at the doors! As an example of suffering and patience, beloved, take the prophets who spoke in the name of the Lord. (NRSV)

I’m struck by James’s repetition of the word beloved. Once, and again, and a third time still he uses this word, addressing his correspondents with a trinity of beloveds. Belovedbelovedbeloved. The repetition has become like a heartbeat as I’ve lived with his words this week.

James tells his beloved ones to be patient as they wait for the coming of Christ. Patience is a word I have trouble with; virtuous though it may be, patience tends to carry connotations of idleness, of biding one’s time because one can’t or won’t do something to move things along.

I know the wisdom of having times of not-doing. I am well accustomed to stillness, to emptying, to delayed gratification. I know how to take the long view, to be rather than do, to understand that things have their seasons.

Still, I don’t like the word patience. I think part of my trouble is that the word is sometimes used by folks who seem to have the most power in a given situation, the people who have the means to produce the desired result but who, for whatever reason, are tarrying, or have no intention of getting things done.

There are times of waiting that call us to stillness. And there are times of waiting that call us to doing, to find some measure of power, to find good work to offer. Even in times of stillness, there is cultivation to be done.

James tells his beloved ones to be patient (in the equivalent Greek word, a form of makrothumeo). But he offers some images that I find helpful, that flesh it out and lend depth and power to what seems like an overdone word.

Here are some lines that came from my pondering of James’s words.

Another Name for Patience

Beloved,
don’t tell me
to be patient.
I am done
with this idle
not-doing,
this waiting that
wastes
and dulls.

Tell me, beloved,
to strengthen my heart.
Tell me to look to the ones
who spoke fire.
Tell me there is work to do
in the waiting,
a field to be cultivated,
a place to labor
during the watching

until,
beloved,
I lay myself down
among the
ready harvest,
spent and
drenched with the rains
early and
late.

On another note, here’s a handful of miscellaneous treasures for a contemplative journey through Advent and Christmas:

If you’re in the mood for some cool Christmas music that’s different from the usual fare, I invite you to check out Music and Mystery, a blog post I wrote last month.

Speaking of music, the radio program Harmonia offers some great early music resources for the season (and throughout the year). In a wondrous stroke of technology and generosity, they have made their archived shows available online. Visit Harmonia Archives to check out their offerings. The 2007 list includes a show titled “Magnificat anima mea” (07-38), which features a delicious variety of settings of the Magnificat. The 2005 archives include a holiday special titled “La Noche Buena.”

Sound and Spirit is another splendid radio program; it looks to music, myth, folklore, and literature from across cultures in exploring various themes of the spirit’s journey. Their archived shows include refreshing, imaginative explorations of holiday themes.

Christine Paintner offers an artful, contemplative space through her web site at Abbey of the Arts, and during this season her blog offers some nourishing Advent fare.

A blessing to you on this Advent day. May your heart be strengthened.

Posted in Advent, Christmas, art, poetry, religion | 1 Comment »

Door 11: In Which We Get to Sing

December 11, 2007

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Instead of giving us the expected Psalm among this week’s readings, the lectionary offers us a song from the Gospels: the Magnificat. Taking its name from the Latin version of its first line, Magnificat anima mea Dominum (”My soul magnifies the Lord,” NRSV), this is an ancient song of praise that we hear on the lips of Mary, the woman who will give birth to Christ.

Mary’s Magnificat joins an intriguing treasure trove of scriptural songs that are commonly known as canticles. Spanning both testaments, the canticles are present in almost every form of biblical literature, including the preaching of the prophets (in joy as well as in lamentation), the wisdom sayings, historical narratives, epistles, and apocalyptic visions. These songs both interrupt and adorn the text; the imagery and rhythms of their poetry heighten and illuminate the drama of the passages in which they are embedded. Though ranging across the entire Bible, the canticles form something of a textual body of their own. Along with the Psalms, they offer a vibrant core of poetry from which the church for centuries has drawn to give voice to our joy, sorrow, praise, and hope.

In her essay in The Canticles (a collection published by Liturgy Training Publications more than a decade ago—and later suppressed, but that’s another story), Irene Nowell, OSB, writes of how the canticles “function like a bridge between telling our story and turning to God in prayer. In form and style,” she observes,

they resemble psalms, but they differ from the psalms in their setting…. These prayers are set in the mouths of specific people in specific situations. They both interrupt the flow of the story and add to its meaning. They are bridges over the gap between life and prayer.

I keep this collection of the canticles on a small table by my door. Usually I leave it open to one of the wonderfully haunting monotype prints that artist Linda Ekstrom created to adorn its pages. But for the past couple of days it’s been open to the Magnificat, the Canticle of Mary, the song in praise of the God who turns the world upside down.

Mary offers this song in response to a blessing. Luke tells us that when Mary finds herself alone in the wake of the archangel Gabriel’s visit, she goes “with haste” to see her kinswoman Elizabeth, who is experiencing a strange pregnancy herself. As soon as she hears Mary’s greeting, Elizabeth intuits what has taken place, and she lays a mighty blessing on Mary for how she is participating in the work of God. “Blessed are you among women,” Elizabeth cries, “and blessed is the fruit of your womb.” Elizabeth continues in a powerful benedictory vein for some verses.

In response, Mary sings.

My soul magnifies the Lord,
and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,
for he has looked with favor
on the lowliness of his servant…
He has shown strength with his arm;
he has scattered the proud in the
thoughts of their hearts.
He has brought down the powerful
from their thrones,
and lifted up the lowly. (Luke 1, excerpts)

I find this scene among the most potent in all of scripture. The image of Elizabeth offering her words of blessing, and Mary responding with song: this moment epitomizes the power of the act of blessing. With her gesture of grace, Elizabeth the Blesser challenges us toward similar action: to recognize where God is working in the world, and to participate in bringing this work to completion.

The blessed Mary sings about the God who is doing a new thing, but her song is not entirely original. Within its cadences we hear the ghostly echo of a more ancient song. In one of the first canticles to appear in the scriptures, a woman named Hannah offers praise to God for responding to her plea for a child. After she leaves her long-awaited son Samuel at the Temple, to begin his training as a nazirite, Hannah sings, in part:

My heart exults in the Lord;
my strength is exalted in my God.
My mouth derides my enemies,
because I rejoice in my victory…

The Lord makes poor and and makes rich;
he brings low, he also exalts.
He raises up the poor from the dust;
he lifts up the needy from the ash heap,
to make them sit with princes
and inherit a seat of honor. (1 Sam. 2.1, 7-8b)

With a voice of longing and exultation that links them across the generations, both women are singing not only about pregnancy and physical birth. For Hannah and for Mary, the massive change within them is linked to a radical transformation beyond them. There is a congruence between what God has stirred within them—in their wombs, in their souls—and what God is stirring in the world.

I find myself wondering about that kind of congruence, and how God is calling it forth in my own life. Regardless of whether we’re called to give birth to physical children, God challenges us to cultivate an interior spirit that is intimately linked with the world beyond us. In this Advent season, what’s stirring inside me that connects me with the world around me? What is God seeking to bring forth in my life that enables me to participate in the transformation that God is working in all creation? And how is God challenging me to be both Elizabeth, Blesser, and Mary, Blessed?

I think I’ll leave my copy of The Canticles open to the Magnificat for a while yet, on its table by my door. In these Advent days, perhaps the words of Mary’s ancient song will be a visible blessing—invocation, benediction—as I pass back and forth across the threshold, from exterior to interior and back again.

Posted in Advent, Christmas, art, poetry, religion | 1 Comment »

Door 2: Sleeping with Kilian

December 2, 2007

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“The night is far gone, the day is near,” we hear in today’s Epistle reading for the first Sunday of Advent, from Paul’s letter to the Romans (13.12). The night was far gone indeed when I finally turned off my computer in the wee hours of this morning and took myself to bed. As often happens when I’ve worked far into the night, I lay awake for a long while. I generally think of myself as a good sleeper, but when I’ve kept my brain working past its usual schedule, it tends to punish me by staying in high gear even though I go through the usual rituals of quiet and reading that mark the ending of the day.

I’ve learned that the best medicine for my insomnia is poetry. There’s something about reading good poetry at night that often breaks the cycle of sleeplessness, something about its landscape that soothes my brain and beckons slumber. Opening a book of poems becomes a prayer for rest: incantation, benediction, their words coax the sleep that I haven’t been able to command.

Last night, Kilian McDonnell was my featured guest on The Insomnia Show. Father Kilian is a Benedictine monk of St. John’s Abbey in Collegeville, Minnesota, who became a poet in his so-called retirement. At last year’s retreat of the oblates of St. Brigid of Kildare Monastery, which we hold each summer at the Episcopal House of Prayer on the grounds of St. John’s Abbey, Fr. Kilian spent part of an afternoon with us, reading some of his poems and sharing about his life as a poet. He was enchanting; our session with him was one of my favorite parts of the retreat.

During last year’s retreat, which we hold over the Feast of St. Benedict, we attended the Feast Day Mass at the St. John’s Abbey Church. Fr. Kilian was among the jubiliarians that year—those monks being recognized for significant anniversaries of their monastic profession. Fr. Kilian, who is now 86 years old, was celebrating 60 years as a monk. His poems, and the language he finds to talk about his work as a poet, bear witness to how six decades of praying the Liturgy of the Hours can shape the soul of a poet.

Fr. Kilian’s second collection of poems, Yahweh’s Other Shoe, appeared last year, published by St. John’s University Press. It was this volume that I pulled out in the far-gone night. With the day near, I gave my brain over to Kilian’s words. Then I turned out the light, and I slept, his slim volume beside me like a talisman through the brief hours that remained of the night.

A few hours later, I was in church, where we heard the Gospel reading for this first Sunday of Advent. Matthew does the Gospel honors this year: “Keep awake, therefore,” he records Jesus as saying, “for you do not know on what day your Lord is coming” (Mt. 24.42).

Keep awake. Gotcha.

I came home and took a nap.

But of course Jesus isn’t speaking literally here; he is talking about being ready, about cultivating a state of soul that is perpetually ready to recognize and welcome him. Pondering his words about wakefulness, I’ve found myself remembering an article that Thomas Moore, known for such books as Care of the Soul, wrote for Parabola magazine a few years ago. Writing about threshold spaces as places that are crucial for our soul’s journey, Moore offers an intriguing take on our approach to consciousness. He writes, “Religion is in the business of finding and constructing methods of getting sleepy, feeling lost, arriving and departing: pilgrimage, procession, fasting, incense, chanting, illuminated books.” (I think again of Psalm 122, the song of pilgrimage and procession that we hear on this first Sunday of Advent.) Moore goes on to observe,

Often we attain thresholds best through inadvertence. If we want their benefits, we might not always aim for consciousness and awareness, but rather a gap in our attention. In my view, the emphasis in some spiritual communities on continuing consciousness defeats the purpose. (From Moore’s article “Neither Here nor There,” Parabola, Spring 2000.)

He’s not arguing against awareness, of course; he’s making a case that awareness and wisdom and soulfulness don’t arrive solely through perpetually vigilant consciousness. There’s a different kind of wakefulness that comes in giving ourselves to practices that cultivate a mindfulness of mystery. I love the litany of examples that Moore offers, and add my own: walking, lectio divina, lingering at the dinner table with friends, creating or encountering artwork.

Poetry.

The scriptures of the Advent season give us rich images of the value of getting sleepy in the way that Moore writes about. The people we meet in the stories of this season receive wisdom in dreams, they offer songs that are ancient poems, they go on pilgrimage and walk in ritual processions. In so doing, they become people who are deeply awake to the presence of God moving within and around them. They find that receiving God’s intense attention is not always easy or comforting but that it reshapes them at a soul level, calling them to engage and offer the very core of who they are.

I find myself wondering how I’ll let myself get sleepy in this season, what habits of inadvertence will take me across the thresholds that God offers in these Advent weeks. How about you? What practices help you be present to the God who delights in meeting us not only in our focused awareness but also in the gaps in our attention, in dreams, in mystery?

Sleep well.

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