Deep Callings

 I took a beautiful walk this morning just before the rain began. The wind came up, and the leaves that had hung on the branches surprisingly long began to let go, almost all at the same time. While leaves of various hues are everywhere, most of the vibrant pinks, blues, yellows and purples of our gardens are nowhere to be seen. We are all surrendering to the inevitable fall.  

   

As I walked past some large trees that line a street a couple of blocks away, I thought of a poem by Rumi that I had discovered earlier this morning. I then said hello to a neighbor. He has been ill and is still not looking well. May this poem be true for him; may his roots still be growing strong.  

   

"And don't think the garden 

loses its ecstasy in winter.  

  

It's quiet, but the roots 

are down there riotous." 

  

Rumi   

     

   

    

image: San Leandro, December 2023
  

 

Oneness

 "We all have a light and a dark side. To use an analogy, we might say that we go through life with a watchdog on one side of us and a wolf on the other. We sometimes feed one, sometimes the other. We all feed both in the course of a life, no matter how saintly or errant we are. Thus, Mother St. Teresa's wolf did not starve and neither did Hitler's dog. 

From a spiritual and saintly perspective, our identity is something like the faith view of the Eucharist. Under the appearance of who we are in the world is our true divinity/identity. Then we too are a holy sacrament, outward signs of inward grace that can nourish the world. Likewise, all the cosmos is sacramental. We can come to see all that is, both ourselves and all natural things, beaming from the monstrance of the universe. We come to see all that is as a bodily holding of a divine presence. When this happens in us, we are truly engaging in perpetual adoration. Our wholeness has become holiness." 

Wholeness and Holiness, David Richo, page 9 

Early this morning I dreamed of two dogs fighting. In the dream they appear at my screen door. They are wounded, but not dramatically, and are quietly standing side by side. I had not yet read this passage from David Richo's book, but I had begun crafting my personal pledge of allegiance. I am reminded once more that there are no coincidences. I am also reminded that any movement to wholeness is not just for ourselves as individuals, but for all of life. We heal together. While that certainly seems ample, we can go further and offer the process of our healing in gratitude. Yes, that is praise. I am also reminded I might benefit from being a little easier on (and in) myself.  

   

Here is the rough draft of my pledge. It is to no flag, but to the sacredness of all life:  

 

"I pledge allegiance to my heart, my mind, and my soul, 

and to the freedom in which we all can live: 

Unity in God - with liberty and justice for all.  

say, November 27, 2023 

   

Yes, I had to look up the word monstrance. It is the vessel in which the consecrated eucharistic host (the sacramental bread) is carried and displayed in the Roman Catholic church, and others. 

   

 

image: Half Moon Bay, November 25, 2023. The creatures in the foreground are hardworking sanderlings who quickly try to harvest any nourishment  they find washed up on the sand before the next wave comes. They run incredibly fast on short legs, but also take to the sky when necessary. I find them fascinating. Please excuse the lack of detail. There is just so much I can do with my eye phone!

Touched and Spoken To

 Last month in my monthly visit to an assisted living community, I asked about Ms. D. who normally would always be us. I was told that she was in the hospital and would probably need to be moved to a community that could provide her with more care than they can offer. I was not surprised because she was growing frail. Yet, I was saddened. I always appreciated her cheery good will. I was told that she had a beautiful garden. I am not surprised.

Yet, this week as we were just beginning the service, I was surprised and delighted to see a caregiver bring Ms. D. to the service.  She was in a wheelchair, and appeared weak. I happily greeted her, and I placed a song sheet on her lap and pointed to the song we were singing. I then returned to lead the group in the singing of the beautiful old Thanksgiving hymns. I glanced at Ms. D. and I realized that she was quietly singing some of the words from memory. I walked over, gently placed my hand on her shoulder, and pointed each word out, and we sang together. Her voice was barely audible, but she was singing. Afterwards, she and I had a good chuckle. Her eyes were bright and she was smiling. My eyes were probably bright as well. Moments such as these are not uncommon in SpiritCare, and they are why I continue to volunteer at a few local communities. 

Before the rains began, I went into the back yard and played my flute. In the book, Braiding Sweetgrass, Robin Wall Kimmerer writes that plants like to be touched and spoken to. I have been trying to interact more with the plants in my garden and it is a pleasurable thing to do. I do not know if they like music, but I love playing outside. On this particular day, the light was beautiful, and I noticed a small white flower glistening as it took in the sun. This particular plant has lived here longer than we have, and I finally learned that it is known as an African or fortnight iris. I think I see better when I play.  My flute teacher contends that music builds communities, and I think he is right. Fortunately, we don't have to be brilliant musicians for these connections to happen. I also believe these communities are made up of more than just humans. Earlier, I stepped outside to pick up the newspaper and to check on the plants in the front. There was a slight wind blowing. The wind this week has been interesting. The air has been warm, but cool breezes have been blowing through. While we cannot see the wind, the movement of warm and cool has reminded me of a Van Gogh sky. I paused to feel the wind and look around. I realized that there was a scent of heliotrope in the air. I was surprised as the one plant we have is not that large, but it is healthy and mature. I bent over and noticed a small caterpillar on one of the blossoms. It had eaten enough that it had taken on a pale purple hue. I had to smile. I did not have the heart to dispatch it, but I do need to keep an eye on it. I am learning that gardening is a balancing act, and not unlike music and pretty much all of life, it takes practice to learn the harmony. 

 

The light is beautiful this morning, and it is time for a walk. Do get outside if you can. Wonders are everywhere and should be celebrated.  

  

Joyful, joyful we adore you, 

God of glory, God of love. 

Hearts unfold like flowers before you, 

Opening to the sun above.  

  

Henry van Dyke 

Hymn tune: "Hymn to Joy", Beethoven, 

adapted by Edward Hodges

  

image: African Iris, San Leandro, 2015

 

Attending

 Recently, I dreamed of a figure dressed completely in a long white gown.  On the left front shoulder was an image of a red heart about the size of my outstretched hand. As I woke, I heard the words, "Make room." I took these words personally (to heart, one might say), and I have been pondering how to respond to that suggestion.   

A few weeks ago, I signed up for a one day retreat at San Damiano in Danville. I love that Franciscan retreat center, but many of their offerings stretch over a weekend, so I am limited as to the number of retreats I can attend. This retreat was held this past Saturday. As I parked my car, I saw and heard a small group singing in the labyrinth. It was a beautiful fall day, and as I walked towards the meeting room, I fell in love again with their garden that was donned in beautiful fall colors. The retreat was titled, "How to Be Sane, Spiritual, and Saintly". I had never thought of myself on a journey to be saintly, but the actual retreat topic did not really matter to me. What I was responding to was the quiet but persistent call to return to San Damiano. 

   

As I settled into the meeting room, I noticed that it was filling quickly. At that moment, I realized I did not even know who would be leading this retreat, and I felt a little foolish. Yet, while I may have known nothing of David Richo, Ph.D., it seemed that everyone else in the room was very familiar with his talks and his books. I sensed happiness that he was returning for the day. It turned out to be a lovely, thought provoking time led by an older, soft spoken, and intelligent author who listened deeply to people's questions, and responses. I told a friend that I would send her the prayer that was given to us. I am sharing it with you as well. I am making an effort to read it every morning. I appreciate addressing God as Sacred Heart. It brings warmth to the journey. 

     

"I say Yes to everything that happens to me today

as an opportunity 

to give and receive love without reserve. 

I am thankful for the enduring capacity to love 

that has come to me from the 

Sacred Heart of the universe. 

May everything that happens to me today

open my heart more and more. 

May all that I think, say, feel, and do 

express loving-kindness 

towards myself, those close to me, and all beings. 

May love be my life purpose, my bliss, 

my destiny, my calling, 

the richest grace I can receive or give." 

  

Dave Richo, The Power of Grace 

One of the retreatants asked about trying to be saintly. I was grateful for the question, and for Dave's soft spoken response: "If we believe we are on a spiritual journey, why wouldn't we try to be saintly?". That actually seems like a very sane response. The day turned out to be a time of mostly silence for me. I spoke very little. I did take my flute with me thinking I might find a secluded place to play after lunch, but I opted instead to just walk and quietly take in the rhythm and beauty of place. I took no pictures. Even that simple action felt like it would take me out of that silence that I now understand as  Presence tending to my heart.  

  

Listening for the Word

 The Journey 

  

Above the mountains
the geese turn into
the light again
painting their
black silhouettes
on an open sky.

Sometimes everything
has to be inscribed across
the heavens
so you can find
the one line
already written
inside you.

Sometimes it takes
a great sky
to find that
small bright
and indescribable
wedge of freedom
in your own heart.

~ David Whyte

First Sip   

    

I do love seeing the full (or close to full) moon in the dark morning sky, and I was quite surprised to receive this poem this morning. Actually, I do not think surprised is the right word. I really do not believe in coincidences much any more. 

Last week, I had a snippet of a song roaming around my mind, "This Is My Commandment", but I could not find it in any hymnal. Then, on Friday, a volunteer pianist and I visited a community that serves elders who have been diagnosed with a mental illness. Many of those who gather with us enjoy singing, and some do so with great gusto. The staff member who helps gather people in also loves singing, so we generally have a good time.  After worship, she asked if anyone had a song request. One man, who spoke so quietly that I had to draw close to him to hear, said that he "had one" but he was having some trouble remembering what it was. I tried to assure him that it would come to him. I then heard him haltingly sing the words, "This is my commandment". The woman sitting next to him recognized the song and amplified his singing which brought both him and me much happiness. Then we joyfully sang it together. In that moment, freedom surfaced, and I gave thanks for these group efforts that remind us that Jesus is always present, knitting us together in surprising ways.

   

The sky is now a beautiful pink, and the moon, while still visible, is slightly veiled by a thin veneer of clouds. The birds have begun their morning songs. As precarious as the journeys must have been for our early ancestors, I believe they looked up, and often celebrated the sky that taught them the signs of changing weather and seasons. Like us, they needed both the sky and one another. I am grateful for all these lessons.  

Yes, gratitude is the word I was looking for.  

 

"I have said these things to you so that my joy may be in you and your joy will be complete."   

John 15:11

image: Hunter Moon, San Leandro

Reaching In, Reaching Out

"The extremes are easy.
Only the middle is a puzzle."

~ Louise Gluck  

First Sip   

 

And it is the middle way that people of faith are called to move around in. Because that is where people meet. In that open space is where compassion lives. It is there where we find Christ, Krishna, Buddha, and a Host of Others. There we find love. 

        

image: April 2023

Coming Home

 This week I was blessed to be able to spend four days at Villa Maria del Mar in Santa Cruz. There I met with seven friends with whom I graduated in 2007 from the spiritual direction program at San Francisco Theological Seminary. The weather was beautiful; the pelicans and seagulls seemed to be finding plenty to eat, and the sail boat regatta  came by on Wednesday evening. Our conversations and reflections were rich as we pondered the changes in our lives: the physical, mental, and spiritual. Yes, we have done this every year. 

This year I took my flute with the intention of finding a secluded place to practice. Every morning before breakfast, I went down to the beach and simply played. That experience proved to be incredibly moving. I no longer felt I was "on the beach" but rather that I was a part of it. The colors seemed richer; the ocean was an exquisite blue and the cliff nearby appeared gold as it reflected the rising sun. As I played, I watched the shore birds, pelicans, and gulls begin their day. I noticed the industrious insects in the sand. I was deeply touched as I watched a young couple joyfully run and play with their dog. 

During our retreat, we were surprised to learn that an interest in music had re-surfaced for several of us. One friend had attended a recent singing retreat. Two others had experienced a renewed interest in Taize. The friend who attended the retreat mentioned that at the end of their time together they had a talent show, and she suggested that we do the same. In my typical fashion, at first I said no. However, I then remembered a Hafiz poem that I had recently discovered, so I decided to read that, and include a couple of short musical interludes, or what Tyler calls "flute noodles". Stories and poems were shared, and together, we sang Taize. I was asked if I could play the flute to accompany some of the Taize, but I declined until next year. One person responded, "You can tell Tyler (who plays in a band)  you have a gig next year!" I did indeed tell him that. He responded by handing me a copy of "O Holy Night" and suggested that he and I play this piece for Christmas. I shall give it a go.   

I often think of an ancient flute that is currently housed in a museum in Slovenia. It is described as the "oldest musical instrument in the world, a 60,000-year-old Neanderthal flute is a treasure of global significance. It was discovered in Divje babe cave near Cerkno and has been declared by experts to have been made by Neanderthals.

It is made from the left thigh bone of a young cave bear and has four pierced holes. Musical experiments confirmed findings of archaeological research that the size and the position of the holes cannot be accidental – they were made with the intention of musical expression.
The flute from Divje babe is the only one that was definitely made by Neanderthals. It is about 20,000 years older than other known flutes, made by anatomically modern humans. This discovery confirms that the Neanderthals were, like us, fully developed spiritual beings capable of sophisticated artistic expression."  

Today, here on the West Coast, we probably will not be able to see the eclipse because the sky is overcast.  I am okay with that. I look to the sky every morning, and give thanks for the wonders that I see. My heart is full. I do look forward to one day being able to see a truly dark sky, and playing with the stars. Perhaps much like my Neanderthal flute playing ancestor did so long ago. 

    

"Listen to This Music"
   
I am a hole in a flute that the Christ's breath 
moves through - listen to this music. 
  
I am the concert from the movement of every 
creature singing in myriad chords.   
  
And every dancer, their foot I know and lift. 
And every brush and hand, well, that is me
too, who caresses any canvas or cheek. 
   
How did I become all these things, and beyond
all things?  
   
It was my destiny, as it is yours.  My poems are 
about our glorious journey.
   
We are a hole in a flute, a moment in space, that
the Christ's body can move through and sway 
  
all forms - in an exquisite dance - as the wind in 
a forest. 
   
Hafiz   
A Year with Hafiz  
Daniel Landinsky   

images:  

My photograph is entitled, "My Practice Room, Santa Cruz, 2023  

The  Neanderthal flute comes from this website: 

https://www.nms.si/en/collections/highlights/343-Neanderthal-flute#:~:text=The%20oldest%20musical%20instrument%20in%20the%20world%2C%20a%2060%2C000%2Dyear,have%20been%20made%20by%20Neanderthals