A Seat At The Table

A Brief Essay on Prayer

2021-10-25T16:18:00.000+02:00

I HAPPENED TO BE STANDING

I don't know where prayers go,

or what they do.

Do cats pray, while they sleep

half-asleep in the sun?

Does the opossum pray as it

crosses the street?

The sunflowers? The old black oak

growing older every year?

I know I can walk through the world,

along the shore or under the trees,

with my mind filled with things

of little importance, in full

self-attendance. A condition I can't really

call being alive.

Is a prayer a gift, or a petition,

or does it matter?

The sunflowers blaze, maybe that's their way.

Maybe the cats are sound asleep. Maybe not.

While I was thinking this I happened to be standing

just outside my door, my notebook open,

which is the way I begin every morning.

Then a wren in the privet began to sing.

He was positively drenched in enthusiasm,

I don't know why. And yet, why not.

I wouldn't persuade you from whatever you believe

or whatever you don't. That's your business.

But I thought, of the wren's singing, what could this be

if it isn't a prayer?

So I just listened, my pen in the air.

Mary Oliver, A Thousand Morning, 2012, p.3

Photo: New Yorker

Of Angels and Guardian Angels

2015-11-05T17:57:00.001+01:00

Bless the Lord, all you angels,
you ministers, who do his will.
Ps. 103

October 2nd is the Memorial of the Holy Guardian Angels. While praying the readings of that day last month, I felt a movement in my heart. It suggested that I spend some time in silence every day with my guardian angel.

Do you believe in guardian angels?

My mother did. She named hers 'François'. My maternal grandmother taught me a prayer her own father had given her, asking the good angel to look after my body while I am alive and to take care of my soul when I die. Even though I say this prayer pretty much every night, I cannot say that until the recent Memorial I nurtured a close relation with my guardian angel. To this day, he has no name.

Angels come in different ways, in both the Old and New Testaments, protecting, healing, guarding. They can be good or bad. Angels can also be found in daily life: someone appears out of nowhere, gives a break at a crucial time, and moves on. Who was that person? I expect everyone of us, hopefully, is an angel to someone at one time or another in the course of our life.

I had a powerful encounter (of a different kind) with an angel more than thirty years ago. I was living in Lima, Peru at the time and was writing a story on Eve. I had read Merlin Stone's When God was a Woman. Her book had removed the scales from my eyes and unbound my mind. The story of Adam and Eve is a patriarchal story produced to destroy women's myths and rites. A three or four-thousand year old myth had stopped being the burden it had been until then. The sinfulness I had inherited from Eve was a myth... Poof! Gone!

As I was thinking about Eve in the garden, I 'saw' that the snake was in fact an angel who happened to have a snake embroidered on his robe. The angel came upon Eve by accident. Why did he happen to be in the garden, I do not know. What the embroidered snake meant, I cannot say either. We are told that angels are neither male nor female. I am not sure about that. In our days of gay liberation, the idea that the angel might have been female adds a new twist to my story. But in Peru I imagined the angel as a male, without his being aware of it. God does not need angels to reproduce themselves. What angels do not know cannot hurt them.

Anyway. The angel comes across Eve. He has heard of God's earthly creation: the sky, the ocean, the birds in the air, the fish in the sea, trees, and flowers. Everything so incredibly new, different from Heaven, and beautiful. Our angel is stunned by Eve's beauty. In her virginal purity, she just sees the angel as one creation among others. She does not notice a difference. She does not question. Why would she? She takes for granted that he belongs in the garden, like everything else. The angel, on the other hand, cannot not keep his eyes away from Eve. He watches her for days, slightly annoyed at Adam's presence, whom he sees as an dim-witted oaf, an awkward boor.

Comes the time when the angel finds Eve alone. They start spending time together. She enjoys his presence; he is not like Adam; he seems to see something different in her, which makes her feel nice.

How does the angel think of suggesting to Eve to eat a fruit from the tree of good and evil? He wants her to be more like him and less like Adam. He hopes that through eating the apple from the tree, this will happen. Of course, he never imagines that Eve will offer Adam a bite from the apple. The angel never anticipates the repercussions. As we know, in the story, Adam and Eve are chased out of the Garden. The angel is expelled from heaven, forever reviled and feared.

In the days that I imagine the story, I could feel the connection between Eve and the angel, as if the two of them were with me in the kitchen as I was preparing dinner. In fact, as I really did not know what to 'do' with the angel's presence which felt so real, I filed the story away and did return to it until now.

In more recent years, as I was preparing once again to walk the Camino, wondering whether my body would withstand one more time on the road to Santiago, I remember one day, lying on the ground in tears (and in pain). Suddenly, the play of light coming through the window did create, for a few moments, like a sparkling presence hovering over me, showering love and encouragement.

These days, when I think of my guardian angel who must have been getting white hair trying to protect me from myself (mainly), I dialogue, ask questions, wonder. Of course, by now, I do see the angel as a companion getting me ready for the hereafter. It is a nice feeling.

Is my guardian angel an imaginary friend, with whom I walk, dance, daydream? Does my guardian angel look at me the way the angel looked at Eve? Am I just a weird creation or someone with the incredible luck to have a divine spark hidden in the depths of my being, which makes me infinitely lovable?

I do not know. Still the movement in my heart on October 2nd remains a reality, something which did happen, an invitation to spend time with the invisible, this agent of the All-Loving...

Art: Benozzo Gozzoli (1421-1497, Angels

Staying Married

2015-10-26T12:06:00.001+01:00

A marriage in the West usually starts like in the photo shown above. Girl meets boy. A strong physical attraction brings the two together. Sometimes, the relationship never quite moves beyond that passionate kiss. At other times, the girl and the boy decide to tie the knot and start a life together. Of course, mores have changed. Girl and boy can choose to live together and have children without getting married. It can also be girl with girl, or boy with boy. Woman and man happens too; love does not stop at age barriers. In fact, the variations are nearly infinite.

I can see these differences in the friends and relatives around me. Some have stayed happily married (with ups and downs, of course). Others are divorced, widowed, remarried. A few are single.

The idea of this post came to me while watching Korean dramas, which are usually very romantic. A kiss comes after several episodes. A bed scene is very rare. So very different from French and Anglo-Saxon shows. Drama takes place, of course, through thwarted love ("les amours contrariés").

One drama, Healer, particularly seized my imagination. The chemistry between the two young people is fabulous, pure in a way, and the attraction between the two is undeniable. Add to this, martial arts, a journalistic investigation, corrupted politicians, you have a great story.

A young couple who falls in love is delightful to watch. It is refreshing, charming, and inspiring in a way. This reminds me of the weekends of Marriage Preparation in which Paul and I participated. The young couples gained some insights in their relationship and were preparing to a life of Catholic bliss and challenges. For us, presenters, we were left at the end of the weekend with a renewal of our own marriage. Those young people's delight in each other (most of the time 'young') was contagious.

As I reflected on the interaction of the two heroes in Healer, I realized that their age in the story was Paul's and mine when we met. Like in the story, Paul was very attractive and I did turn him on. Then, I tried to imagine the heroes in the drama forty-five years later. How have their appearance changed? Are they still together? Do they have children? What did life bring to them that shook up or threatened their love for each other?

Watching Korean love stories has me revisit my own. Just today I was looking through our wedding photos. One gave me the thrill of a shiver: during the wedding reception, Paul and I are standing by friends sitting on benches in the field where we all have lunch. His left hand is on my shoulder. How wonderful this hand still feels today...

I have no idea really why Paul and I stayed married. My mother once told me, "You're lucky: you got married for love". I guess she hadn't. True, neither he nor I fell in love with someone else, or became attracted enough to somebody to be tempted to leave our marriage.

I did not get married thinking that our marriage would last, however. Having seen my maternal grandparents and my parents unhappy in their own marriage, I had always thought that if it did not work out, unlike them, I would leave. Also, I felt pretty sure that after two years I would know everything there was to know about my spouse, and might not want to stay with him any further.

I was wrong, of course. I still don't really know all there is to know about him. I did think of leaving sometimes over the past forty-five years, but I always gave myself more time -- to be hurt. Six more months... In six months, I will see. I had my escape plans: how I would get from where I was to where I wanted to take refuge... It all got easier after the first twenty-five years. But it's still possible to get really hurt now. Not today or yesterday, but even so.

Paul and I have succeeded where my grandparents and parents have not. I feel grateful for this 'success', but have no recipe to offer. I have seen how a broken marriage hurts those involved; how much of one's self-esteem seems to be linked to marital success. Sometimes, of course, spouses are unaware of what is really going on in the mind and heart of their significant other. The revelation can be dumb-founding or heart-wrenching.

Among the many gifts that Godde has given me in the course of my life, staying married is one of them. The attraction of that first kiss is still there and somewhere inside of me, it is not only the sixty-nine years old woman who breathes, but also the twenty-fours years old who fell for this young American man and was, and still is, so very much turned on by him.

Thank you Godde for this.

Photo: Robert Doisneau (found here).

Homelessness in Manhattan

2015-10-17T15:05:00.000+02:00

I am just back from the States, after spending some time in Manhattan. Our children have moved and we will now visit them there. Manhattan is a big change from Puerto Rico, where we spent fourteen years, off and on.

The idea of spending time in New York is thrilling: so much to do, so much to see. It is one thing to spend three days in New York and fill them with theater and museums. Living there is different. It is a move, basically. It is taking me time to adjust, to act, to mobilize, to start anew. A poor night and my day is shot. Lethargy sets in, and not much is achieved.

Life is good, and a bit unreal. We have a room with a view; we stay minutes from our children; everything needed is within a short walk. So yes, we've seen a ballet, movies, been to museums. I already have a to-do list when we return. What to keep our eyes out for...

The surprise came from the feeling I get from seeing homeless around where I live. They help me feel 'home' somehow. They ground me in reality. They remind me that they will be rich in heaven, and I will be poor. I will beg for their attention then.

I am grateful for their presence. They reveal the glitter of the big city for what it is. A few folks live at the top, while the rest struggles to make ends meet. And there are those who no longer have any ends to meet.

One Saturday morning we joined some thirty or forty other people at the rectory of our parish to hand out a bag with a few goodies to people on the street (a sandwich, a ticket for a McDonald's meal, a t-shirt, a list of shelters, soup kitchens and showers). We went in small groups to Grand Central Station, Penn Station, the Port Authority, or stay in the neighborhood. Paul and I chose the fourth option. With three or four bright green bags to hand out, we set off to meet our street brothers and sisters.

Whereas I had come across several homeless folks in the previous days, that night it had rained and it had been cold, so we walked through empty streets. The people we were looking for had disappeared having found shelter somewhere. It took a bit of walking to meet those we were looking for.

I remember a young man, Tom, with so many pieces of luggage around him; or this tall black man, born in Kenya from a US father and a Kenyan mother. I joked with him that he had points in common with President Obama, which made him and his friend laugh. (Unfortunately, I have now forgotten his name.) I met Kenny on that day, next to a grocery store. A couple of days later, I saw him at another place, and he was surprised I remembered his name.

In each encounter, the point was not only to hand out the bag, but also to connect. Kenny was the one who needed most to talk, which is why I found easy to remember his name. He too was lugging around a heavy suitcase and a couple of bags. He had spent the night in a hospital because of a bad back following a work accident...

Before we started on our journey, still at the church, one group leader mentioned in passing how easy it is to become homeless in New York when one loses one's job...

At the end of the morning, with still one green bag to give someone, on the door steps of the church, I came across a young black man, with dark sun glasses. He too had a black suitcase with two smaller bags stacked against the lifted handle. He looked ready to go on a business trip, but was hanging around other homeless. So I assumed that he was one himself. What took me to ask him if he lived on the streets? He found my question very rude, insulting, and stupid. Would anyone consider living on the streets and be run over by cars, he asked. Would I ask this very same question to a family member, to Jesus?

I was lost for words, thinking that indeed I would ask a loved one if he or she was living on the streets. Undoubtedly, Jesus was living on the streets... Which better question should I have asked him, I inquired. Angrily, he went on... The idea of having insulted him brought tears to my eyes and I found myself lost for words. After he rejected the food I was offering him, I walked away with a heavy heart.

This young man stayed with me most of that day. Our encounter churned in my mind and heart. He was angry, he was hurting. An old white woman, with a roof on her head and food in her fridge, was doing her thing, − and insulting him in the process.

I am ashamed somehow to admit that the presence of homeless in Manhattan makes this place beautiful to me. They, who have nothing, give me so much, just by walking the streets, sitting on bench, or begging for change with a piece of paper where it's written that they feel so ashamed to have to do this.

How I wish I could be a fairy-godmother and change their grim reality into something warm and safe! I hope to find a way to make their life a tiny bit better. How can I receive so much from them and only give some change in return?

Photo: Midtown Manhattan from Weehawken, NJ, wikipedia

Ephesians and K-Drama

2015-09-21T19:20:00.002+02:00

I, a prisoner for the Lord,
urge you to live in a manner worthy of the call you have received...
Eph 4:1

To live in a manner worthy of the call you have received...

As Paul read this passage aloud this morning, my heart stopped. Am I truly living in a manner worthy of the call that I have received? I knew the answer even before I gave it. No.

Every so often, a line in a daily reading echoes through my whole being and does in me the work it is meant to do... As the rain and the snow... do not return... till they have watered the earth... so shall my word be that goes forth from my mouth; it shall not return to me empty, but shall do what pleases me... (Is 55:10-11).

Last night at mass I felt quite unworthy and somewhat 'removed'. The sermon was wonderful (oh, to hear a priest talk about poverty, homelessness, gay equality...). The activities of the parish are inspiring. Still my attention was somewhere else.

This morning's reading realigned my time, interests, dreams, hopes, and velleities... Suddenly, Godde feels back in my life again. Her love is there; this very special attention, as if her eyes were on me, looking at me with kindness. The longing to do better, more... Magis, our friend Luís would say.

In recent months, I have taken a vacation from life. j'étais aux abonnés absents, disconnected from much of what my life used to be. A new passion has entered my life, a disordered affection of sorts. A Korean drama on Netflix introduced me several months ago to another world, country, language, history, lifestyle -- and I fell in love with it. It has opened up a new window in my mind. I love it so much that I have dropped most other things. Hence the rub.

This new love has triggered me into looking at the other loves Life has brought me over the years. It started with the English language when I was twelve and spent three weeks in England. I returned many times. I worked in English, fell in love with an American in Geneva, and discovered the Anglo-Saxon world. Then came Spanish (Peru), Hinduism (India), Catholicism (Cursillo/RCIA), Ignatian spirituality (our friend Louis, CVX/PR, Manresa), and now K-drama.

I do not know where this new love will take me, but I trust it will take me somewhere, as every other passion has. I am learning Korean very slowly, reading about Korean society, following the news, and enjoying Hallyu (Korean pop culture). I don't think I have had that much fun in years. I have no friends and relatives with whom I can share this passion, but I have such a grand time with it that it does not really matter. The only impact I have had on my family is that now we exclaim 'Fighting!' when we want to encourage each other (one of the few Korean words I can understand).

The letter to the Ephesians this morning came attached to the reality check which I face every day as I come across so many homeless on the streets of Manhattan (where we now spend some of our time). I know that I cannot let my life be consumed with this love which has come to brighten my final years. The time to end my vacation from life is here. Like every vacation, I come home with new ideas, new projects, ready to go back to be more present to those extraordinary gifts which Godde showers upon me and to which I want to respond.

It is time to go back to living more in a manner worthy of the call I have received.

Photo: Gian Ehrenzeller/EPA, photojournalismus.tumblr.com

Statues in Museums

2015-09-14T22:44:00.000+02:00

Statues in museums remind me of beautiful wild animals in zoos: they have been removed from their natural environments so that many folks who could not see them otherwise can have an idea of what they are. But museums and zoological gardens only give an approximation of the true nature of what is looked at.

I have never liked much to see animals prisoners behind bars. I always feel sad for them. I love going to museums and admire what I would never come close otherwise. Well, this was the case until I stood in front of a Ganesha and remembered my days in India when I learned of this generous and all powerful god.

Years ago, in a whim, I had prayed to Lord Ganesh. I found to my great surprise that my request had been granted. An Indian friend of mine explained then that Lord Ganesh cannot turned down a prayer. Possibly all prayers from all denominations and all corners of the planet end up in the same place. I don't know. I trust in prayer, whether to the Blessed Virgin Mary, St Anthony of Padua, Saint James (of Compostela fame), or Lord Ganesh.

All these receivers of prayers can be found in museums. How often, however, does one think of praying to the St James that can be seen on the ground floor of the Met?

What is the difference between Mary Mother of Jesus in the Notre Dame Cathedral of Paris or in the Cloisters? Why would one pray in one place and not the other? Isn't the statue representing the same holiness here or there?

This is what I felt the other day as I came upon this Lord Ganesh (I think). Suddenly, it was not just a museum piece standing there for my aesthetic and cultural pleasure. It was the representation of goodness incarnate, a God who can never say no to a prayer. So I bowed my head and prayed. I addressed my most heartfelt hope to the Remover of Obstacles. I felt a connection which I feel in churches and temples right there in the museum.

In the movie One Night At the Museum, the statues, animals, and scenes all become alive when the museum closes. What about the gods and goddesses, saints and holy women and men in all the world's museums? Do they miss the place for which they were meant? Do they remember the prayers addressed to them, the ceremonies celebrated for them? Are they tamed forever once they are removed from their place of origin or do they remain just as sacred and powerful as they were before, in a reality of their own which we cannot even begin to imagine?

Art: Standing Ganesha, pre Angkor period, Cambodia, Metropolitan Museum of Art

Jumping The Queue

2015-09-06T16:01:00.000+02:00

The other evening we went to the supermarket. Every office worker working nearby had rushed to its aisles. Seven p.m. is definitely not the right time to go grocery shopping, if you can avoid it. Neither is the lunch hour. We bought what we needed and headed toward the cash registers where the lines looked like an airport on Christmas eve. As if heading toward the security check, I wove my way till I found a hole to slip in. I turned around and noticed Paul right behind me, just outside the queuing area. I lifted the elastic tape separating us, and invited him to move in with the shopping cart. At this point, a nice tall young black employee in charge of crowd control pointed out to us that we were jumping the queue. For this time, however, he would let this go.

I did not think anymore of it. I did not feel I had jumped the queue. I was in it and had invited Paul to join me. Paul, on the other hand, felt embarrassed for having done it. This was not right. It is only the following morning that he mentioned the incident, expressing then strong feelings which I had neither noticed nor imagined. After a few minutes, he muttered that he had to let 'this' go.

Jumping the queue runs in my DNA. It's basically a sport in my country of origin, France. If it is no longer French, it's very much deeply rooted in what I happen to be. (The French have gotten better when time comes to receive the Eucharist. Some time back, it was a free for all, as if there were a risk of running out of hosts).

I remember years ago, in my early teens, hopping on an English bus ahead of the queue and heading straight to the back of the bus. An irate older gentleman pointed me out to the conductor and I was asked to get off the bus. I never jumped a bus line in England again.

My mother liked to recall how in Dunkerque, in June of 1940, an English officer, gun in hand, asked a friend of hers to get off his ship because the soldier had rushed onto it without paying attention to the queue. Stranded on the beach, this friend ended up spending four years in a German prisoners' camp. Still he did not to get killed like so many others.

Yesterday, we returned to the supermarket where throngs were shopping for Labor Day weekend. I headed for the lines, with the shopping cart, while Paul was running for something we had forgotten. No queue jumped this time.

I tend to jump queues without noticing it. If at all possible, it feels normal to make my way toward the head of the line... I am grateful that Paul shared his embarrassment. I will be more careful.

This led me to reflect on those reflexes we all have. I jump queues; a black youngster starts running away when a policeman calls him; a trader cannot resist the rush of the deal; a mother snaps angrily at her child because she's scared. We all have reactions which are not helpful, but which at some other time came in handy and has become way of being.

Anything specific comes to your mind?

Art: Stephen Escher

Taking Forever

2015-08-30T22:09:00.001+02:00

'It is our most cherished belief that there is no one who is irredeemable, no situation that is without hope, and no crime that cannot be forgiven.'
The Book of Forgiving, Desmond and Mpho Tutu, 6

The idea of forgiveness has been with me ever since I learned the Our Father, those evenings that I knelt by my bed as a small child. 'Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who have trespassed against us.' A very demanding prayer.

Hurts have usually found a way of making a home in my heart. They sniff their way around, like a dog before he lies down. Once settled, they can remain there forever, or so it seems.

The idea of forgiving entered the living-room of my soul in the early RCIA sessions I attended more than twenty years ago. Forgiveness is a choice. Hm...

Breast cancer came along and thanks to Stephen Levine's book, A Year to Live, I started to work systematically on gratitude and forgiveness. I made lists, if nothing else. I became aware of my grudges.

While working on a degree in Pastoral Studies, I wrote a timeline of those times when I had felt close to and far from Godde, when I was happy or miserable. This is when I realized how unhappy I had felt in the very early years of my marriage, while living in Paul's hometown. The idea of returning to visit filled me with dread. The mere idea of going there made me want to bolt. I did not find hard to meet my in-laws individually, but family gatherings felt overwhelming. Usually, by the end of our stay, shortly before leaving, some random event would take place and leave me flat out.

From 2005 on came our Camino years. I can think of many reasons to walk the Camino. One of them is to work on forgiving those people whose memory fills me with bile. I would pick up a stone or two, each for a different person. My fingers would play with them as I walked along, till the moment when the anger seemed gone and I would leave the stone by the side of the road or on a cross along the way.

Grudges really smell like stale cookies or vegetables passed their prime, but I had learned to live with their smells.

This year, after a decade or so, came the time to return to the Pacific Northwest to show it to our grandsons and visit Paul's relatives. The same old angst filled my heart. Two books, however, came to my rescue: Kathleen Dowling Singh's The Grace in Aging and Desmond and Mpho Tutu's The Book of Forgiveness (mentioned above). (Note: I have only started these two books and still have quite a ways to go before I finish them.)

From KDS's book, I realized that I did not want to take my fear of relatives with me in death. I would rather leave them all behind; this meant coming to some sort of understanding and resolution. I also came to see that in view of our respective ages (60s and 70s), this might be the last time I see some of these people (or all of them if I happen to die first). This thought put a distance between what was to come and my feelings somehow. I found safety in distance.

The Book of Forgiveness, where Desmond Tutu and his daughter address the need for reconciliation in South Africa -- and the rest of the world --, revealed to me that Paul's relatives had not harmed me in any way. They all are good people who come from a culture quite different from mine (not all Westerners are alike). I just met them in my 20s and simply did not know how to cope with my culture shock. My angst had sprung from who I was, not from who they were. Truly, I had nothing to forgive them. This turned out to be quite a revelation. An odd and amused peace spread through my heart and soul. Had it been this easy all along and I had not noticed it until now?

As we were preparing to leave for our family visit, I mentioned my experience to our younger daughter. 'My fear is gone,' I told her. She looked at me and said, 'Maman, it only took you forty-five years.'

And so it did.

Photo: Ruby Beach, Washington State, August 2015

Abundance and Climate Change

2015-06-18T12:40:00.000+02:00

... whoever sows sparingly will also reap sparingly,
and whoever sows bountifully will also reap bountifully.
Each must do as already determined, without sadness or compulsion,
for God loves a cheerful giver.
Moreover, God is able to make every grace abundant for you,
so that in all things, always having all you need,
you may have an abundance for every good work.
2 Cor 9:6-8

This reading struck me yesterday because, if I read it correctly, whatever abundance Godde gives us in our life is to be shared with others, some of it, at least, to be given away. The word 'abundance' brings back memories of my reading, and saying, years ago affirmations like, Every day in every way I become more prosperous...

This passage stopped me in my track and had me wonder how much of my 'abundance' do I share?

Today, Pope Francis' Encyclical on Climate Change, Laudato Si, Praised Be, is to be released. Much noise has been made already, for it and against it. I will read it as soon as I can lay my hands on it.

Until then, what dawned on me this morning is the link between our abundance and the climate change. Our abundance comes basically from the grabbing by the First World of the natural resources in the Third World. As you may already know, if everybody in the world lived the way most US citizens live, it would take seven 'earths' to maintain that lifestyle.

Our abundance comes from the Industrial Revolution and this Western sacred cow which capitalism is for some of us. Our planet is being raped again and again, so that we can drive gas-guzzling cars, eat salted almonds, turn on our A/Cs, enjoy strawberries at Christmastime and buy cheap goods made and sold by exploited workers.

I expect some people to rave about Pope Francis' encyclical. But will those who rave be willing to change their way of being? Will I be able to live with less so that others can live with more, all that without destroying our Mother Earth?

Of course, some people are going to fight tooth and nail the reflections and recommendations proposed by Pope Francis. Strong political anti-bodies are going to react violently to a reality they prefer not to see, because this reality is too deeply challenging to the way we are.

Today's situation is fascinating: Are we truly followers of Christ and willing to save both our poorer brothers and sisters while saving the earth as well? It is in our power, in our own interest even, to do so, but is it also in the realm of our will?

May Godde give us the grace to change.

Photo: ICCG's tweet, 9 June 2015

Rooted And Grounded In Love

2015-06-12T10:27:00.003+02:00

For this reason I kneel before the Father,
from whom every family in heaven and on earth is named,
that he may grant you in accord with the riches of his glory
to be strengthened with power through his Spirit in the inner self,
and that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith;
that you, rooted and grounded in love,
may have strength to comprehend with all the holy ones
what is the breadth and length and height and depth,
and to know the love of Christ which surpasses knowledge,
so that you may be filled with all the fullness of God.
Eph 3:14-19

I remember reading this passage one very early morning years ago. I felt the breath of the Spirit sweeping from St Paul to me, crossing two thousand years within a moment. I was flooded by a delight only experienced again a few times since then.

This morning, as Paul read the passage aloud, I felt my heart expanding way past my ribcage and taken by an enchantment that brought tears to my eyes.

to know the love of Christ which surpasses knowledge... How much I have longed for this connection with the love of Christ these past months! My distracted mind has lead me through a fog where, mesmerized, I followed the sirens' call. Deep in my heart though, every night, I could feel a longing which wanted me somewhere else: To feel the gaze of Christ on my face once again. Otherwise, I spent the day sleep-walking.

This morning, as I heard the familiar lines and as I looked at them again on my own, the warm glow in my heart helped me understand that I had returned home and that all was, and is, well.

Each word in this excerpt tastes of honey to me. Christ's presence infuses each one of them. St Paul's grace is at it again: It fills my heart with gratitude for His love flowing over me, through me, in me, around me...

Thank you.

Photo: from artofprayer.tumblr.com

The Soul of a Pilgrim

2015-05-25T17:53:00.000+02:00

Now it is time to sit quiet

alone with You

and to Sing

a re-dedication of my life

in this Silent

and overflowing joy.

Rabindranath Tagore, "A Moment of Indulgence"

This quote comes from Christine Valters Paintner's latest book, The Soul of a Pilgrim. You will find many more fantastic quotes there.

This book came at the right time in my life. I had finally accepted the need to leave a place very dear to me. As John Valters Paintner explains in Chapter One, "The Practice of Hearing the Call and Responding":

"Pilgrimage ... can mean the life journeys we take in response to unwelcomed circumstances... Any time life ousts us from our places of security, we are called upon to bring ourselves fully present to our experience. We honor that even unbidden journeys can take us to places where we encounter God more closely." (21)

As some of you know, I have gone on pilgrimages to Santiago de Compostela. I have spent days walking, sixty-eight days the first time, then thirty days, then fewer and fewer. I also made a pilgrimage once to Dharamsala to listen to the Dalai Lama. A seeker by nature, I have gone on inner pilgrimages most of my life. Also, next year, we will be taking our children and grandchildren on a short pilgrimage to Santiago to celebrate my 70th birthday. This book came as a preparation for it.

The Soul of a Pilgrim is meaningful on several levels, levels which are presented by Christine and her husband John. Those levels are identified as practices: hearing the call and responding; packing lightly; crossing the threshold; making the way by walking; being uncomfortable; beginning again; embracing the unknown; and coming home.

It has been a while since I have held in my hands a book that I found so seminal, so inspiring, so moving. Every page makes me want to write. It opens doors in my heart which I did not even know were there. It gives me courage...

"What if when life started falling apart, we opened our hearts to welcome in the grief and fear that arrived? What if we considered them as holy guides and windows into the immensity of God? What if all the painful feelings of loss and disorientation were invited in for tea? What if everything that turned our preconceived ideas inside out was precisely where we found God?", writes Christine Valters Paintner (111).

This book is a result of two e-courses that Christine gave through the Abbey of the Arts . I have been privileged to take several others in the past, as I have been fortunate to read several of her books. They have enriched my life more than I can say.

In her latest work, I found familiar themes that I was glad to visit again, such as Lectio Divina, Midrash, Visio Divina, Creative Exploration through Photography, and a Closing Blessing. I also particularly enjoyed the many questions she asks throughout the book; I know I will return to them, again and again. The novelty here for me was the inclusion of Christine's husband, John, who writes the eight reflections of biblical passages. He adds another voice, also filled with wisdom and kindness, bringing new angles to old stories.

This is a book I would love to discuss in a study group, to "walk" with some like-minded friends and explore our thirst to encounter our God within. It is a book I will offer, a book I will keep by my side, a book which is such an incredible gift in itself.

I will close this by sharing here the seven-word prayer which came to me at the beginning of the book. I started reading The Soul of a Pilgrim in Puerto Rico and finished it on the plane to France. The seven words which came to me were: Love Calls Me To Open To Life. This prayer, more a mantra maybe, has already operated magic in my life.

May this book bring joy and wonder in your life as well.

Blessings.

Facing Eternity

2015-05-20T11:54:00.000+02:00

Thirty years ago in Dharamsala (India), while attending teachings given by the Dalai Lama, I met a Swiss Tibetan Buddhist woman who told me something interesting. I quit smoking, she said, because when I die I don't want to spend my time in the Bardo Thodol (intermediate state between death and the next rebirth) looking for cigarettes.

Interesting thought. On what am I spending my life, my money? Where does my attention dwell? Which fears do I nurture? Which secret garden do I keep to myself? Were I to die tonight, which attachments would lead me away from where I hope 'to spend eternity'?

In recent weeks, I have fled 'reality'. I just did not want to look at it. I anesthetized myself by closing down and watching TV series on line. I stopped praying, I stopped meditating. I stopped doing my evening examen. I entered the virtual world of Korean drama and hid there. Mind you it has introduced me to an entirely new world, both real and virtual, which has brought new life to my life...

Still, last night, as I was fighting jet lag and trying to find sleep, I called Godde for help to get me out of this self-induced trance. And the question came: How do I want to spend eternity?

Would it be possible to take with myself, as I walk across the threshold between now and the hereafter, all that has seized my mind while I was alive, the good and the not so good. For instance, were i to be into sex, or clothes, or losing weight, or money, or travel, or power, would I just continue being seized by the same obsession for all eternity?

Like my ex-smoking friend, are there areas of my memory which I need to clear so as to create space to welcome the Ultimate Awesomeness which is there awaiting everyone of us? Do I want to hide myself ad vitam eternam in TV reruns?

[Smile]

When I lived abroad, the minute I realized that I was deep in culture shock, my life started improving. I am in a similar situation today: I see what I am doing to myself by numbing myself so that the only feelings I experience come from romances thought up by skilled writers and played by delightful actors -- thus avoiding to deal with my own reality.

Godde and I are writing my life together. It is a remarkable adventure in itself. It is time for me to get back to it.

Photo: Sky in viejo San Juan, Puerto Rico

Remembering

2015-05-04T23:21:00.000+02:00

A long time ago, my mother-in-law told me that she saw life not so much as circles (or ellipses maybe), but as a spiral for ever revolving upon itself, moving along, whether upward, downward or sideways, as you choose. Thus, we revisit events that happened long ago, drawing the fruits from the experiences lived then.

Walking along the beach with the waves and the clouds, I remembered something [Sri Sri] Ravi Shankar told us thirty years ago during a weekend retreat in Delhi. "You choose the experiences in your life."

At the time, these words had felt liberating: I had not been the victim of events; I had chosen the experiences to learn something from them. Life, after all, is to be, to experience, to receive, to cherish, to let go, to move on...

I feel blessed these days, grateful for all that Godde has given me and keeps giving me, grateful also that I am approaching 70, with Death waiting for me at the end of the journey. This thought of the end of my journey (it might still be twenty years away, I know) fills me with peace.

A peace, strangely enough, that I have already experienced. Nearly fifty years ago, one evening, I felt very depressed and slit my wrists. I was not very good at it and I did not end this 'me' which drove me to despaired. I did think I was on my way out, however, and I experienced the most incredible peace. This is the peace which is with me today when I think of the time I will be moving on.

You may find this morbid, but it is not. Especially when I link Ravi Shankar's words to it.
My life is inviting me to revisit major events, both joyful and painful, but especially those which have left bad memories -- those wounds, grudges, scars that Life distributes as we move along.

As I walk along the beach and remember events that have left me like a deer caught in headlights, as I remind myself that I chose them, I ask myself the question: What did I learn from them? How would they have impacted me had I been different? What did they help me become?

The woman I am today cry tears with the woman I was then. How hard those days seem! The woman I am today welcomes the woman I was then. I can hug her as long as she needs. I untie the knots in her stomach and her heart. I kiss her bruises. We have so much to tell each other.

I wish I could do cartwheels on the wet sand to thank Life for this life of mine... The waves wash my feet of old anguishes and sadness. Loneliness dissolves in the foam. My soul stands naked in front of the One who creates me moment by moment.

Bless Godde my soul...

Adios To All That

2015-04-18T18:03:00.000+02:00

The other day as I was walking in viejo San Juan, my mind whispered to me, "Adios to all that" as in, Goodbye to all that. These words have a familiar ring, so I checked. Robert Graves wrote an autobiography by this title in 1929. In 1967, Joan Didion published an essay with the same title. In 2013, a book on writers loving and leaving New York used it as well. More recently still, in 2014, a movie was entitled this way. For me, however, it is just more Adios than Goodbye.

My time in Puerto Rico is coming to an end. We arrived in 2001 when Paul had just retired. All these years, we have been able to spend several months with our older daughter and her family (this left our younger daughter somewhat in a lurch; we found other ways of spending time with her). We discovered a small apartment in viejo San Juan, facing the ocean. What fabulous years we spent there!

Ten years ago this month, we both left on our first Camino, the longest one, from Le Puy to Santiago. It took us 68 days to walk 1,500 km, or 900 miles. We had trained for it walking around the Laguna in Condado. We caught the Camino bug and went back pretty much every year, seven or eight times in a row. During these years we spent our time in Puerto Rico, in France, and walking the Camino. How fortunate we have been.

More important maybe, from 2002 until 2010, Paul and I worked at Las Duchas with Ramonita and her crew, receiving the homeless and drug-addicts living in viejo San Juan. We got to know pretty much everyone of them, loving some more than others, getting to understand their story, their hardship. Jesus was one of us at all times. This may well have been the most intense time in my life.

Still more incredible, we left our life in Geneva, Switzerland, heavily involved with Ignatian spirituality. Right away, as if by chance, we found ourselves invited into a CVX (CLC) small community of Puerto Rican women and men. All this thanks to two couples: One who invited us to their Tres Reyes party that first January. There we met a Jesuit father who invited us to a CVX day with theologian Maria Clara Bingemer. At that same workshop, another couple invited us to join their small CVX community. With all of them, we have shared our life in prayer every time we come back to the island. Our CVX involvement led us to retreats in Barranquitas with the Sisters of the Sacred Heart, then to Manresa, Spain, for its Ignatian Immersion Course and more recently a 30-day retreat.

When we returned in February, we found out that our children are leaving the island for a while to take care of an elderly relative. Our grandsons will go to school on the mainland. In the coming years, we will return to Puerto Rico, of course, but for much shorter visits.

Life transfers us. Once again. With Paul's UN job we grew accustomed to transfers. They were both sad and exciting. Saying goodbye to lovely friends and hello to new adventures. It's still a bit this way now.

Like the boat above (all the way from Stockholm), on the beach, waiting for the tide, we too will sail off in a few weeks.

I have so many reasons to thank Godde for all that we have received here. For this wonderful island and its wonderful people. For its culture, its music, its beauty, its fantastic coffee. For the friends who welcome us, again and again.

It does feel like the end of a chapter, with the knowledge that I don't have that many more chapters left. Next year, I will turn 70 and this feels both wonderful and awesome. On the horizon, faintly, I can guess my final transfer, a liberating take-off into eternity.

I have not written much in recent weeks. My heart and mind are usually at peace, something odd for me. I don't feel particularly drawn to 'religious feelings' as I did in past years. Organized religion, right now, irritates me more than inspires me.

Like the sailboat on the beach, I bask in the sun, waiting for the wind to catch my sail, wondering where it will now take me...

(While I know where my future will geographically take place, I wonder where my inner life will lead me.)

Where the Spirit will blow, I will go.

Photo: A Swedish sailboat on the beach

When I say, Maya Angelou

2015-04-11T14:42:00.002+02:00

When I say … “I am a Christian”
I’m not shouting “I’m clean livin’.”
I’m whispering “I was lost,
Now I’m found and forgiven.”

When I say … “I am a Christian”
I don’t speak of this with pride.
I’m confessing that I stumble
and need Christ to be my guide.

When I say … “I am a Christian”
I’m not trying to be strong.
I’m professing that I’m weak
And need His strength to carry on.

When I say … “I am a Christian”
I’m not bragging of success.
I’m admitting I have failed
And need God to clean my mess.

When I say … “I am a Christian”
I’m not claiming to be perfect,
My flaws are far too visible
But, God believes I am worth it.

When I say … “I am a Christian”
I still feel the sting of pain.
I have my share of heartaches
So I call upon His name.

When I say … “I am a Christian”
I’m not holier than thou,
I’m just a simple sinner
Who received God’s good grace, somehow!

- Maya Angelou

poem seen on simply-divine-creation.tumblr.com

Noli Me Tangere

2015-04-07T16:10:00.001+02:00

She thought it was the gardener and said to him,
“Sir, if you carried him away,
tell me where you laid him,
and I will take him.”
Jesus said to her, “Mary!”
Jn 20:11-18

In his shadow I delight to sit,
and his fruit is sweet to my taste.
He brought me to the banquet hall
and his glance at me signaled love.
Song of Songs 2:3-4

The recurrence of biblical passages year after year in our liturgy offers an inner exploration of the many interpretations one can give to the same passage. Take today's. Jesus and Mary Magdalene in the garden.

What struck me this year is how much their encounter reminds me of the Song of Songs. How much Mary Magdalene's soul and love for Jesus want to become one with the One she has followed for several years.

Another aspect of the Triduum and of this morning in the garden in particular has impacted me: how much the women and men disciples of Jesus must have not only feared and trembled for Jesus and themselves, but also how much they must have wept during these days of trial and crucifixion and loss.

It is thus a very teary Mary Magdalene whom I see coming to the tomb, inquiring from the angels, and turning to the gardener. Anyone who has felt "filled" by a time in a retreat can imagine and feel how Mary Magdalene's heart and mind were full of love and longing for Jesus.

I sense the intensity of their encounter: the faithfulness of the woman, Jesus no longer the man who walked the earth. The woman's hunger for his presence, his comforting touch, his soothing words. An encounter both in time and out of time. Out of time in the sense that anyone who wishes to join them and experience their connection can.

For years, I felt desolate for Mary when Jesus tells her, “Stop holding on to me, for I have not yet ascended to the Father..." This morning, I realize that her possible desolation at having to let him go is replaced by the energy she feels when she hears his command, "go to my brothers and tell them..." Her love for him sends her into action, the way Gabriel's Annunciation to Mary has her immediately leave to visit her cousin Elizabeth.

Is it really possible to love Jesus and not feel sent on a mission?

Mary Magdalene will rush out of the garden and announce the good news to the others. I choose to stay in the moment before she goes, when Mary Magdalene hears a beloved voice call her name, that instant of recognition, of connection, of oneness, however ephemeral, that moment she will surely revisit again and again till death brings her back for all eternity to the One who loved her and saved her.

Illustration: Rembrandt, Noli Me Tangere, 1638

Anointings in Bethany, Helen Zimmerman

2015-03-30T17:26:00.000+02:00

Anointings in Bethany
Jn 12:1-8

Solemnly, Mary entered the room,
holding high the alabaster jar.
It gleamed in the lamplight as she circled the room,
incensing the disciples, blessing Martha's banquet.
"A splendid table!" Mary called with her eyes
as she whirled past her sister.

She came to a halt at last before Jesus,
bowed profoundly and knelt at his feet.
Deftly, she filled her right hand with nard,
placed the jar on the floor,
took one foot in her hands
and moved fragrant fingers across his instep.

Over and over she made the journey
from heel to toes, thanking him
for every step he had made
on Judea's stony hills,
for every stop at their home,
for bringing back Lazarus.

She poured out more nard,
took his other foot in her hands
and started again with strong, rhythmic strokes.
She felt her hands' heat draw out his tiredness,
take away the rebuffs he had known —
the shut doors, the shut hearts.

Energy flowed like a river between them.
His saturated skin gleamed with oil!

But she had no towel!

In an instant she pulled off her veil,
pulled the pins from her hair,
shook it out till it fell in cascades
and once more cradled each foot,
dried the ankles, the insteps,
drew the strands between his toes.

Without warning, Judas Iscariot
spat out his anger, the words hissing
like lightning above her unveiled head:
"Why was this perfume not sold
for three hundred denarii
and the money given to the poor?"

"Leave her alone!"
Jesus silenced the usurper.
"She bought it so that she might keep
for the day of my burial."

The words poured like oil,
anointing her from head to foot.

Incarnation: New and Selected Poems for Spiritual Reflection
page 88

Art: Table in Bethany, Refektorium des Aletti-Zentrums, Rom

Answering One's Call

2015-03-28T16:05:00.000+01:00

In an era when women enjoyed little protection under the law and little consideration by church authorities, beguines were claiming their fullest humanity through the eucharist: if God could become human. if Christ was fully present in the eucharist, then women were worthy. Thus beguines ardently believed that Christ's presence in the eucharist was an act of liberation for them, and in their contemplative devotion they could "bypass" priestly authority -- especially in times of corrupt clergy and politically motivated quarrels between popes and kings.
Laura Swan, The Wisdom of the Beguines, 106

Godde gives each one of us a specific vocation, whether we know it or not, believe it or not. One often looks for an answer in a specific religious order, hoping to fit into it. These orders came about over the centuries, each developing a particular charism, each one of the many facets of Godde's goodness. But Godde's goodness goes way beyond all that can be imagined.

Why am I saying this?

Well, I have just finished Laura Swan's book on the Beguines and I have been parabled, turned upside down if you wish. Here are laywomen who, maybe thanks to the Crusades and so many men leaving them to fight, had to fend for themselves. They stepped into the breach and, out of the experience, some discovered a new way of life which fitted them.

Over the centuries, mainly from 1200 on till the 1600s, but continuing nevertheless till the 18th c. and even into the 21st c. (with the last 'known' beguine passing away in 2013), the beguines shared a common way of life, usually in communities (from two to a thousand), chaste and simple. The beguines were known for their business sense, their organizational and trading skills, their commitment to God, the poor and the marginalized.

They were lay 'contemplatives in action' (to use an Ignatian term). Their way of life went straight against the norms of their times: they were lay, self-supporting, single, or widowed women, living on their income, paying taxes, spiritually and personally independent, preaching in public and debating with select theologians and biblical scholars. (11) Yes, some ended up burning at the stake.

Reading Laura Swan made me realize that the beguines had found a way to emulate Jesus and his first disciples, all the while being remarkably counter-cultural.

It was a women's movement where rich women helped poor women and together they saved girls and women from prostitution, taught poor women marketable skills, opened schools, ran hospitals, and fed the poor. They offered a safe haven to women, the poor, and the lepers.

The taxes they paid to the towns were they lived protected them from the arbitrariness of the hierarchical church. They were a financial assets to the towns and a spiritual and economic help to the surrounding communities.

In many ways, the beguines remind me of the US religious sisters who go to the margins to help those left behind by both society and church. Beguines experienced "visitations" as well, when the Inquisition tried to rein in these independent women who did more good that the clerics of the times.

I am struck by how the beguines were simultaneous within and outside the Church. They did not depend on the hierarchy, for funds or authorization. They were free women who went about their business, praying and taking care of those in need, copying manuscripts, writing liturgies and hymns, 'reading souls' and giving spiritual direction. At a time when Christians were so afraid of God's judgement, they proclaimed His goodness, compassion, and love, and incarnated those gifts wherever they ministered.

The beguines answered their call, choosing to live it in the world, a continuation of the first women disciples who accompanied Jesus on the dusty roads of Palestine, -- before patriarchy reasserted itself.

I would love to read this book with a study group. I suspect that many ideas would come out of it, both exploring all that is already being done and of all that is left to be discovered.

Happy reading!

See also Phyllis Zagano's article in NCR, Beguines Carried Forward Women's Ministry

Algarete

2015-03-13T21:46:00.001+01:00

'Algarete' is a great word that I discovered in Puerto Rico, shortly after we joined our small CVX (CLC) community. I usually go to the meetings with a small notebook on which I enter new words or expressions. Algarete was one of the first ones I wrote down. It means 'adrift', as in a boat going adrift on the sea. Our meetings always start with the best of intentions. We have an agenda, developed over the years. It always begins with an opening prayer, then we move to sharing bits of our life since we last met.

When we introduced the idea of sharing, it came from Adult Children of Alcoholics where I remember everyone started the meeting with one or two sentences on how we each felt at that moment. No comments were expected or allowed even. Today, I feel really angry. Today I feel really sad. Today my life sucks. Today I feel really good. Each one thus had a basic idea how everyone felt and we could move to business, which was the exploration of one of the Twelve Steps.

Our CVX members rarely can fit how they feel into one sentence. We like to elaborate. Some interrupt to comment. Pretty soon, most of the meeting time has been about life sharing, which is heart-warming and truly important. I am sure that Godde is very pleased with it. St Ignatius may be as well, as listening is an art in Ignatian spirituality. At some point, however, someone exclaims, 'We are algarete. We are adrift.' And indeed we are.

For a while now, I have been algarete. I usually pray the daily readings. I even look at them the night before so that they can work on me. I come up with an idea or two for a blog. But my mind and life drift to some other activity, which I faithfully relate in my review of the day before I go to sleep.

Apart from the daily readings, two streams of thoughts have been with me these past few days.

This tweet of Fr James Martin has been rolling in both my mind and heart. I could only 'favorite' it. I could not pass it on. Why? When Cardinal Jorge Bergoglio was elected Pope two years ago, I was filled with joy. My prayers had been answered: our new pope was coming from Latin America. On top of it, he was a Jesuit! Who would have thought?

I remember tweeting that I was praying for someone who came from Liberation Theology. While it may not be the case of Pope Francis, he has not hesitated to beatify Archbishop Oscar Romero which has been a saint for me for many years. Pope Francis stands also for the poor, repeatedly. In my heart, he stands as a prophet, while in some other people's hearts he is a communist (the last Communist was Leon Trotsky and he was shot decades ago).

When I tweeted my hope for the next Pope, I forgot to mention that I was hoping he would be women-friendly. A bit like when I made a pink bubble for our next home, thirty years ago, I forgot to mention that I wanted a view. I got everything I had asked for; it's only afterwards that I realized I would have liked a view. Well, it's only after the fact that I thought of a feminist Pope... Oh well.

Still, I am extremely fond of Pope Francis. When I read today in an article on a speech he made, or an interview he gave, in Mexico that he expected to be Pope for two to five years, I felt a great sadness. I would like him to live much longer. Then I wondered whether in the time he sees allocated to him, he will be able to do all that he wants to do, for he has started so many changes. For his intentions, I pray.

The second stream of consciousness with me these days comes from an article I read in the New Yorker. Break-in at Y-12.

It's a great piece on the Plowshares movement, Dorothy Day, Phil Berrigan, Elizabeth McAlister, and many other invisible heroes who face jail for the sake of nonviolence and US disarmament. This brought back to my mind an important moment in my thirty day retreat when looking at the world and the Two Standards of Ignatius, I saw that I was part of the problem (i.e. with the rich folks -- most white folks are rich, whether they know it or not, compared to those who earn two dollars a day). The question which sprang to my mind then was, "Can I be part of the solution?". And I have no answer yet.

I mentioned two thoughts, but in fact I would like to add two more:

— one, by the great Ilia Delio, a reflection entitled, Why the earth won't green without us. It's really worth reading. Her mind and heart soar above mine, and lifts me up to spheres and concepts which are obvious but so often unseen or unthought of; and

— finally, because I spend so much time on Twitter, sifting through the news for the pearl that will explain it all, here is a short video of Eckhart Tolle, The news is the deepest manifestation of unconscious. This is delightfully true once I give some thought to it.

As you can see, I am indeed algarete, all over the place, adrift on the ocean of life, not doing much, trying to love mainly, floating along in Godde's arms.

Blessings on your own journey.

Crimson

2015-03-03T15:27:00.000+01:00

Though your sins be like scarlet,
they may become white as snow;
Though they be crimson red,
they may become white as wool.
Is. 1:18

It is not easy to imagine my sins crimson red. I cannot be that bad, O Godde. I have a friend who refuses to look at sin in her life. Too much of it has been pushed down her throat over her many years by priests from the pulpit.

I find that in my life sin likes to go unnoticed. It makes itself small, harmless, innocuous. If I look at the span of my life, however, all the small, standard, and serious sins I have accumulated over time, I might as well face the crimson of my sins.

So here I am, Jesus, standing in the midst of my sins, sins that seep in every corner of my life, looking away so as not to face the pain they caused to many, but to You most of all. "Let us set things right," You tell me. "If you are willing, and obey, they may become white as wool."

You, Jesus, are on the cross, breathless, with no strength left. Your crimson blood shows the lashes of the whip; pearls of blood bead from your crown of thorns. You, the innocent one.

What have I done for You, Jesus?
What am I doing for You?
What will I do for You?

As I ponder the question, I walk with the Risen Christ on the beach. We talk of sin and love. I ask Him to change my heart, to help me obey, to become more willing. To follow you, O Risen One. Gently, He places his scarred hand on my heart and I feel His warmth, His life, a new life coming into me.

May the crimson of Your love beat in my own veins, Beloved.

Illustration: Autumn Lane, Kassel, Germany photo via fobsta, found on Pinterest.

A Quote In Time

2015-02-28T19:03:00.000+01:00

God makes us ask ourselves questions most often when God intends to resolve them. God gives us needs that God alone can satisfy and awakens capacities that God means to fulfill.
—Thomas Merton

Every day I receive an email from jesuitprayer.org with the daily scripture, an Ignatian reflection, and an Ignatian prayer. Today, the prayer is from Thomas Merton (?!). Of the whole quote, the first sentence impacted me most. Recently, I have been asking myself questions which I cannot answer. I feel lost in transit. The second sentence is not bad either, once I start spending time with it. The whole quote, then, is very much right on time for my life at this point.

The Merton quote allowed me to breathe a huge sigh of relief. I will get an answer to my questions in Godde's own time.

Talking with Paul about it this morning, a series of thoughts suddenly unfolded. My life is filled with goodness at this time. I am receiving much more than I have ever asked for. And I don't know how to thank Godde for all this. I would like to respond in kind, which means 'doing' something for Godde and Her Creation. My mind scampers all over my daily life trying to find ideas of things 'to do.' The final thought that came to me then is that I may just be asked to enjoy Godde's bountiful love at this point. The 'doing' will come later.

After my earlier huge sigh of relief then came a feeling of well-being that rippled through my being. It is not easy to be on the receiving end of goodness. In a way, I am like the bird in the picture above: I am sipping Godde's goodness and marvel at the ongoing bountifulness...

Part of my challenge is that I can find no reason in my life for deserving such goodness and abundance. Godde's gratuitous and extravagant love fills me with awe. Silence and gratitude may just be the best way to receive it.

Today my whole being is basking in Godde's goodness.

Thank you, Godde.

Illustration: jesuitprayer.org

Off Track

2015-02-27T19:03:00.000+01:00

And if the virtuous woman turns from the path of virtue to do evil,
the same kind of abominable things that the wicked woman does,
can she do this and still live?
None of her virtuous deeds shall be remembered,
because she has broken faith and committed sin;
because of this, she shall die.
Ez. 18:21-28

Today's first reading starts with the promise that the evil woman who turns away from all the sins she committed... will live. I have always liked this part. I could relate to it. After all, had I not changed my ways?

This morning, however, when I looked at the passage, I recognized myself in the virtuous woman who turns from the path of virtue. Oh, turning from the path of virtue is an exaggeration. I am neither on the path of virtue nor off it. Life, this month, has become a river that goes too fast for me. I can hardly keep my head above water. I am fascinated by what I see going by. Every so often I catch a glimpse of Godde; I am reassured that She is still there, close by. But not close enough that I can hang on to Her.

I am not bad; but I am not good either. My heart is in one place; my head is somewhere else. My emotions err in-between.

One reassuring thought this morning: the path is there to go back on. The choice is always available, even though recently I did not even seem to have time to think of choice. I have been like a kid in wonderland, taking in as much as I could, wondering what Godde wants from me.

Find joy, Godde is there, my inner voice whispered. The thought stopped me. Godde hides in the deepest of my desires. I have embarked on a treasure hunt. Finding Godde in my crazy, bountiful life.

Everyone talks of desert these days. My life is a desert when I cannot feel Godde. So I can be standing in the middle of a crowded market, of a busy street: it feels like a desert if I cannot feel Godde's heart beating in mine.

Oh, the faint call of the Beloved echoing in the depths of my being...

Illustration: here, riverawaken.tumblr.com

Sacramentalizing Time

2015-02-18T16:19:00.000+01:00

We are back from Abidjan, in Côte d'Ivoire, where we visited our daughter, Anne Amanda. She is working there at the moment. The day of our arrival, we were having lunch at the Pâtisserie Abidjanaise when I saw three men crossing the busy street and heading towards mats on the sidewalk. There, their faces turned toward Mecca, they started praying Allah. I became oblivious of the unfamiliar sights, the people, the cars honking. I felt swept up by the sacredness of their time spent with Godde.

Some days later, as we were walking the streets of Man, I heard (was it the first time ever?) the call of the muezzin at lunchtime. This human voice floated up into the sky with loving words toward the One who creates all. I wondered whether a woman's voice would ever also be heard one day. From then on, each time I heard the call, wherever I happened to be, my heart leaped with joy, following the song toward the heavens.

Any time spent with Godde becomes sacred. Just as silence can be seen as a sacrament, and the Eucharist of course, any time lived in the presence of Godde becomes a sacrament as well.
In a way, Lent is about making daily life a sacred time, a moment of utter closeness with the One who loves us.

This Lent, I hope to give up a few things -- judging, mainly, and fear. My heart also longs to spend more time with Godde in prayer, in silence, in communion with others, with Nature, and facing the awful news that come to me through the media. Fighting my own indifference and squeamishness, I will look at them in Godde's presence.

Each minute of every day is laden with Godde's presence, love, and gifts. Lent is a time given to slow down, stop even, lift up my hands in praise, and thank Godde for all that makes my life. I am so glad Lent is here.

May you have a blessed Lenten journey.

Photo: A Bangladeshi Hindu devotee folds her hands in prayer at a temple in Narayanganj,

near Dhaka, Bangladesh. artofprayer.tumblr.com.

Source: the Wall Street Journal

Live This Day Today

2015-02-05T16:09:00.000+01:00

This morning I received a poem in an e-mail from our friend Pierre. The poem was written in French by a religious sister, Sr. Odette Prévost, who died in Algiers on November 10, 1995 under the bullets of a terrorist as she was heading to mass. You can read more about her here (in French). She was a Little Sister of the Sacred Heart of Charles de Foucault. Here is the poem:

Live this day today

Live this day today,
God gives it to you, it is yours.
Live it in Him.

Tomorrow belongs to God,
It does not belong to you.
Don’t carry tomorrow’s worry  today.
Tomorrow belongs to God,
Give it back to Him.

The present moment is  a frail footbridge.
If you load it with yesterday’s regrets,
with tomorrow’s uncertainty,
the footbridge gives way  and you lose your footing

The past? God pardons it.
The future? God gives it.
Live this day today
in communion with Him

And if there is cause for worry
for a loved one
look at it in the light  of the risen Christ

© Sister Odette Prévost
little sister of Jesus (Charles de Foucault)
assassinated in Algeria on 10 November 1995

or again in the original French:

Vis le jour d’aujourd’hui

Vis le jour d’aujourd’hui,
Dieu te le donne, il est à toi.
Vis le en Lui.

Le jour de demain est à Dieu
Il ne t’appartient pas.
Ne porte pas sur demain
le souci d’aujourd’hui.
Demain est à Dieu,
remets le lui.

Le moment présent est  une frêle passerelle.
Si tu le charges des regrets d’hier,
de l’inquiétude de demain,
la passerelle cède
et tu perds pied.

Le passé ? Dieu le pardonne.
L’avenir ? Dieu le donne.
Vis le jour d’aujourd’hui
en communion avec Lui.

Et s'il y a lieu de t'inquiéter  pour un être aimé,
regarde-le dans la lumière  du Christ ressuscité.

© Sœur Odette Prévost
petite sœur de Jésus (Charles de Foucault) assassinée en Algérie le 10 novembre 1995

As her short bio data says it so well, her life was not taken away from her for she had already profoundly and consciously given it .

A big thank you to Pierre for this morning gift, and to Pierre and his wife Terry for their translation in English.

Photo: Sr. Odette Prévost

Getting Better All The Time

2015-02-04T19:10:00.002+01:00

I have juxtaposed these two images to convey how my mind feels when it tries to reconcile the various messages I, as a woman, am receiving from Rome.

The Pontifical Council for Culture has recently posted on its site the outline of a document entitled, Women's Culture: Equality and Difference, in preparation for a meeting in Rome, Feb 4-7, attended by Cardinals and prelates. It is accompanied by Man Ray's Venere Restaurata (1936).

The choice of Man Ray's work to illustrate the 12-page document has created a stir, covered by several articles (Crux: Vatican effort to talk about women’s issues stirs controversy; NCR: Sparks fly over choice of image for Vatican document for assembly on women) and blogs (Questions from a Ewe: Happy Irony Week!). Tweets have been flying as well as sparks, comments to various online journals posted.

To tell you the truth, I cannot bring myself to reading this document. The feminist Catholic that I am has a physical reaction to both the style of the content and the illustration: a reaction that brings back memories of bouts of morning sickness which I lived through 40+ years ago.

Pope Francis is doing a great job in Rome. He is, in many ways, an answer to my prayers. The dressing down and reform of the Curia; the reform of the Vatican bank; the beatification of Msgr Romero; his attacks on unjust economy; his defense of the poor; his giving sleeping bags to homeless on his birthday; his daily homilies. What more can I ask of this man?

Well, nobody's perfect. When it comes to the 'Women's Questions" in Rome, Pope Francis is very poorly advised. I would recommend he appoints eight or nine women theologians brought from the five continents, asking them to plan a Synod on Women to be attended by an equal number of women and men.

To be honest with you, when I first saw the Man Ray statue, I was so upset that I was going to suggest to simply close down the Vatican. All hopes were gone. Then, I realized my suggestion was a bit radical and I came up with the idea of the need to have parity in all meetings of the Catholic Roman Church.

I may have odd news for some: the Holy Spirit does not only call and come to ordained men. The Holy Spirit calls, speaks to and through all people, whether Jew or Gentile, slave or free, male or female, gay or straight, black, white, brown, or yellow, rich or poor, lay or ordained.

Which is why: Women's voices, women's points of view, women's life stories, women's laughters and women's tears have to echo finally in the corridors of the Vatican. They need to bring "Life!" into the mausoleum that the Vatican has turned into.

And Pleeeeease remove this illustration which comes out of a weird mind, the one who made it and the one who chose it. It is like a "metaphor" bringing out to this old imagination of mine images that are utterly revolting.

What would Blessed Virgin Mary say about it?

Agh...

Illustration: Immaculate Conception; Man Ray's already cited work