Resurrection

 

     

       

This photograph is one that I took a few years ago. I cannot remember where. I love it, because despite its wounds, the tree appears to be praying and even dancing. In that spirit, I want to share a meditation by the Native American writer N. Scott Momaday. This is from Earth Keeper, Reflections on the American Land.

"The force of life is very great...Some years ago the prayer tree at Rainy Mountain was struck by lightning. It burned and turned black. The tree seemed to be dead. But a long time afterward there appeared a tiny sprig of green on a charred limb, and the hidden life of the tree burst out in a hundred leaves. It was a wondrous sight, and I wept to see it. I believe that the earth gave of its irresistible life to the tree. How can we not give thanks in return?"

Friends, spend some time outside today if you can, and give thanks for the blessings that you discover there. Take good care of your beautiful souls. The work of love will continue.   

Calm

 

 I just read a lovely quote by Episcopal bishop Rev. Barbara Harris (1930–2020). She was commenting on the story of the disciples panicking in a storm while Jesus slept:

"What they did not understand, and what many today do not understand is that although we may panic in times of stress and distress, God does not share our panic."     

   

   

Thank you, Father Richard Rohr and the Center of Action and Contemplation for this reminder.

 

Jesus woke up, rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, “Peace! Be still!” Then the wind ceased and there was a dead calm. He said to the disciples, “Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?”
Mark 4:39–40

Walking With the Soul

 

Seeing the shadow of a rose petal makes me think that life might be a little more tender than I realize.  I am two months away from retiring from ministry. I am grateful for the message that the time has come to learn to walk in a new way. 

Inside the Rose (2)    

Rumi, translated by Coleman Barks

    

But there are those in bodies

who are pure soul. It can happen.  

   

These messengers invite us to walk with them.  

They say, You may feel happy enough where you are, 

but we cannot do without you any longer. Please.      

  

So we  walk along the rose,

being pulled like the creeks and rivers are 

out from the town onto the plain.  

   

My guide, my soul, your only sadness

is when I am not walking with you.   

   

In deep silence, and with some exertion

to stay in your company

I could save you a lot of trouble. 

    

   

    

image: San Leandro, November 2024   

     

Love Letter

 Overall, I am feeling optimistic. Now, that feeling does come and go, but I am getting better at reading the tide. At the moment, I know only this morning's beautiful light. A few nights ago, the crescent waning phase of the moon was stunning. I love that moon phase because when the sky is clear, the outline of the full moon to come can be seen. Yes, it is subtle. All the better. Then two nights ago, it rained. Not a lot, but it was indeed rain, and not, as I initially thought, a creature rummaging around. It really has been a long dry summer.    

 The image that is attached was taken from the dining room window at Villa Maria del Mar in Santa Cruz. The sun was setting. As I have mentioned, the ocean was very much alive last week. Anchovies were in, and they were feeding whales, and all sorts of sea and shore birds. I was particularly delighted that pelicans were able to feast. I understand that is not always the case. I knew little else but awe and gratitude. I do think they often go hand in hand, like the lovers that they are. 

  

Speaking of love, I love this poem. So I share it with all of you.  

    

He Is a Letter  

 

Someone who goes with half a loaf of bread

to a small place that fits like a nest around him,

someone who wants no more, 

who is not himself longed for

by anyone else. 

   

He is a letter to everyone. You open it.

It says, Live.    

 

Rumi   

   

Yes, I am trying to keep things simple these days, although I did have some moments of discomfort when I could not find my book, A Year with Rumi, by Coleman Barks. However, in the process of searching, I put two books in the giveaway box. As a friend of mine says, "It's all good." 

Connecting

 I spent Monday - Thursday of this week at Villa Maria in Santa Cruz.  Every October, I meet with friends with whom I studied spiritual direction. We graduated from San Francisco Theological Seminary in 2007 and we have been meeting every year since then, including meetings on Zoom when we cannot not meet in person. Villa Maria, a Sisters of the Holy Names retreat center, overlooks the ocean, and it is a beautiful place, simple but meticulously maintained. Upon arrival, there was the smell of fish in the air - a very encouraging smell in October for it signals the arrival of anchovies, and anchovies signal the arrival of hundreds of pelicans, gulls and other sea and shore birds as well as whales, otters, and seals. For a while, I could forget my concerns about election campaigns and global warming and simply give thanks for the anchovies that were nourishing life all around me.    

At lunch a couple of days later, several people, including some visiting nuns in full habits, were excitedly talking and looking out the dining room windows. A whale had been spotted. Yet, as I looked out, my vision kept returning to a tiny hummingbird visiting the gardens below the windows. I felt a connection between the whale and that tiny hummingbird. Nothing is truly separate.

Another moment then came to mind. The day before I left for Santa Cruz, I was standing along the fence in the backyard watering a fuschia that grows there. On my neighbor's side there is a board that stretches along the length of the fence. I call this board the "squirrel highway" as it gives the neighborhood squirrels and the occasional cat an above ground route to and from the front and back yards.

As I was watering and probably talking to the fuchsia because that is what I do, I suddenly heard the sound of a galloping squirrel by my head. The sound startled me, and I wondered why the squirrel was expending so much energy.  I then noticed a black bug on the fence that was quickly scuttling away. I realized that this small creature and I and the squirrel were sharing surprise.  Regardless of the stance that some politicians are trying to take in this election, we are indeed knitted together, and need to stay that way.  Our existence depends on it.

  

This image was taken at Villa Maria this year.  I thought I had an older photograph of the cypress tree that is partly seen here, but I could not find one. It is a beautiful old tree where people and crows gather to chat, rest, and view the world around them. Last winter's storms obviously took a toll on this venerable being.  I played my flute to the tree, and felt my own roots deepen. This is indeed a time for all creatures to hold on together.

      

        

image: Villa Maria, October 2024

A Passing Blessing

"If something comes toward us with grace and can pass through us and toward others with grace, we can trust it as the voice of God."  

Richard Rohr 

      

   

    

    

image:  Sonora Pass, September 2024

Beyond Walls

 In the dream I seem to be working in some sort of outdoor hospital. There are no walls and no floor, just a few makeshift beds. There is quite a bit of chaos going on, but my intention is to baptize two young children. I do this because both of them have asked me to do so. I  cannot tell you the exact nature of the chaos, but it was very present, and I had to work through it and around it. Finally, I am able to baptize the children. I stand upright, and I hear someone ask me why I would do that. Why would I even attempt a baptism in such an environment? I ask in return, "Why wouldn't I? It is all a temple." 

 This morning I received the following thought from Father Richard Rohr:  

"Our very suffering now, our condensed presence on this common nest that we have fouled, will soon be the ONE thing that we finally share in common. It might well be the one thing that will bring us together. The earth and its life systems on which we all entirely depend (just as we depend on God!) might soon become the very thing that will convert us to a simple gospel lifestyle, to necessary community, and to an inherent and universal sense of the holy."    

 On January 12, 2025 my intention is to retire from the San Lorenzo Church. I have loved being there. Yet, I cannot deny that Tyler and I both long to do some exploring, both internal and also out in what is still our beautiful country.  I recently bought a small book, Earth Keeper, Reflections on the American Land by N. Scott Momaday. I would call this book a devotional, a prayer book, and a book of dreams. I also call it beautiful. Momaday, a poet, novelist, and essayist, was of the Kiowa people.  In this book he writes, "The earth is a house of stories." I want to hear, and experience, more of these stories, more of these dreams. 

     

    

    

       

image: Coyote Regional Park, October 2024. When I took this photograph, I did not see these two women. As we walked by them, they had paused at the trunk of the tree, and were leaning against it. They seemed relieved to have found a resting place.  I think I understand.