One More Mary Oliver Poem

The flowers in the picture are not roses of which Mary Oliver sings, but the blossoms of what I call my "Pentecost cactus." Three or four years ago, a week before Pentecost, I bought it from a sidewalk vendor in Oakland.  It was in full bloom, and I watched the vendor's father strategically place it in the sun in front of her cart. It shone like a beacon, and I crossed the street to buy it. It blooms every year around this time, and because the flowers last for a couple of weeks, it has always managed to be in bloom on or close to Pentecost Sunday. The rest of the year it looks kind of scraggly, and every year, I think it will bloom no more. I am sure it is root bound, and this year, after it finishes its blooming, I will re-pot it. We both have had enough of this living in doubt.

    

    

When the Roses Speak, I Pay Attention  

 

"As long as we are able to 

be extravagant we will be 

hugely and damply 

extravagant. Then we will drop 

foil by foil to the ground. This 

is our unalterable task, and we do it

joyfully."   

 

And they went on. "Listen, 

the heart-shackles are not, as you think, 

death, illness, pain,  

unrequited hope, not loneliness, but 

  

lassitude, rue, vainglory, fear, anxiety, 

selfishness."   

 

Their fragrance all the while rising 

from their blind bodies, making me 

spin with joy.     

  

Mary Oliver   

  

Witness

Monday morning was overcast, so Tyler and I decided to go for a hike in Tilden Park on the Berkeley/Orinda border. Our hope was that because of the weather, fewer people might be on the trails, and we were right. Yet, we were surprised by the density of the fog. At times the trees dripped precipitation on the trail.  In those moments, we knew no season.   

  

Lord, I will learn also to kneel down 

into the world of the invisible, 

the inscrutable and the everlasting.

Then I will move no more than the leaves of a tree

on a day of no wind, 

bathed in light, 

like the wanderer who has come home at last

and kneels in peace, done with all unnecessary things; 

every motion, even words.  

 

Mary Oliver, from "Coming to God: First Days"   

 

  

Clearance

My morning meditation is rooted in reading, sitting meditation, some writing, and often a walk. My afternoon meditation is working in my chaotic garden. I get a little exercise and sun; I tend to living things, and in the pruning, raking, and sweeping, I believe the same might be happening in my mind and spirit.  Making room for God and life. Earlier this week, I went to a nursery to talk about the possibility of growing a ceanothus in a container. The woman who was assisting me thought it could be done.  When I asked her how much water this CA native plant should receive, she responded, "Your plant will let you know."  A frustrating answer for this uncertain gardener, but probably true. Much about gardening is about learning to see, and taking what we see to heart.   

   

"Meditation is a discipline of simplicity. Our world needs to learn it urgently. It is a discipline whereby you direct all your powers of consciousness to God. Instead of being at the mercy of your mind with its myriad thoughts and imaginations you bring your mind, your consciousness, to silence. In that silence you quite naturally become open to God and God's power. It is an utterly benevolent power which we can only describe with the word love."  

  

John Main, Word Made Flesh   

  

Learning

During a break yesterday afternoon, I began reading the book, A Life Giving Way, a Commentary on the Rule of St. Benedict by Ester de Waal.  Here she writes, "The Christ who has appeared in different roles in the prologue now asks of me that I too play differing roles: that I am pupil, discipulus, the one who learns, as well as son and daughter, soldier, member of the household, one who follows the way."   

 

Jesus, of course, spoke Aramaic, not Latin, but de Waal's parsing of the word disciple as "one who learns" surprised me. I always have thought of disciple as one who follows, and certainly following (obedience) is an important aspect of the call, and obedience is one of the vows of the Benedictine life.  However, to follow without learning can create imbalance.  Without balance, there can be no stability. Without stability (also one of the vows), learning becomes difficult and our lives, both individual and communal, become stifled. We do need to remain open, learning as we go. Learning implies not only study, but also incorporating what we are learning into our lives as we move forward (conversatio morum or ongoing conversation). 

  

Benedict's intention was to "create a school for the Lord's service (Prologue 45)." In order to follow Christ, one must learn Christ.  However, Christ is just not to be studied, but lived.    

 

Inching Along

This came to me this morning via email so thought I would pass it on. There are days when the journey just seems too long, and some days the journey seems far too small.  Yet, it is in this life, just as it is,  where we meet God.  Our lives are our monasteries, our altars, and our movable feasts. 

A Spiritual Journey

 

And the world cannot be discovered by a journey of miles, 
no matter how long, 
but only by a spiritual journey, 
a journey of one inch, 
very arduous and humbling and joyful, 
by which we arrive at the ground at our feet, 
and learn to be at home.

 

~ Wendell Berry ~

The Movable Pilgrimage

"Until we are rooted in the moving pilgrimage, until we have fully stepped through the door which begins the spiritual journey, then the universe will always seem threatening. The particular will respond as if it is going to be swamped or overwhelmed. But once we have stepped across the threshold of the survival instinct - that is the work of faith expressed in commitment and daily perseverance to the spiritual path - then the universal and the particular are no longer felt to be a threat or tension, but are united in a relationship of love."   

 

The Selfless Self, Laurence Freeman OSB     

   

Yesterday, I sat in meditation with a resident who has Parkinson's. After our meditation time, she quietly said, "I feel we are sitting in friendship."  I agreed. The time is a gift to both of us and I am going to try to schedule some additional meditation time with her. She considers herself to be Buddhist. I consider myself to be Christian. Together, we experience only love.  Yesterday, in one of my worship services in a rehab hospital, a patient told me she was Muslim. I introduced myself and welcomed her. She seemed intrigued by the service, and afterwards thanked me, and I thanked her for being with us. I have a sense that God does not get wrapped up in what we call ourselves but rather simply asks that we love one another, and this world.   

 

The beautiful plant in the picture is a native plant, the California lilac, or Ceanothus. I have read that they can be grown in a container as long as they do get too root bound.  I am going to try, as I think the only spot that gets enough sun in our garden is by the driveway so it will need to be in a pot.  I am going to need some professional advice, as I know California natives do not like a lot of water.  However, I believe this endeavor is worth trying for the sake of both our honey bees and our California native bees. Indeed, I spotted a bumblebee visiting this plant, but (as usual) my photograph turned out very poor. They are wily creatures!  

   

Let us trust our journeys for they have been started in love. Particulars may not matter quite as much as we think. 

      

  

Daily Tasks

"Wherever there is love, there is only prayer."    

David Steindl-Rast