Somehow Spirit; and human nature

Yes, it's blurry.  It was from very far away;  I was up on a hill.  I leached all of the color out of it.  But I like it this way.  I could not tell from that far away what the bird was -- all I know is that it was white, and it was a bird of prey, and it had just left being chased by a persistent crow.  But I'm ok with not knowing, actually.  It opens the door to a more symbolic interpretation for me. 

Palm Sunday is hard, or at least weird.  It's disingenuously joyous and exuberant, because we already know our fickle ways;  we already know that in less than a week we're going to be calling for his unjust death;  we already know that we're going to give in to mob mentality, because that is the human way;  we already know that we're going to claim the consequences of our passion and our lack of foresight for our children ("let his blood be on our hands and on the hands of our children" -- What? Thanks a lot!  Speak for yourself, they say.).  So what else is new?  We keep doing this, exhibiting tragic lack of foresight, mortgaging our future generations' futures, offhandedly claiming the consequences of our actions, until those consequences start to hurt a little, and then we cry, "Yeah, but we didn't know then what we know now."  Why should we expect anything different from ourselves?  It is the human way.  And I am definitely human.  God have mercy upon me.

Retreat! (a.k.a. Run Away!)

Back from our silent Lenten retreat. It could not have come at a better time. I had just lived one of the worst weeks ever -- school really sucked last week, and I just got completely overwhelmed and had a meteoric meltdown (at home, fortunately), such that Friday I was a complete zombie. I was never so ready for a retreat.

This was my third silent retreat, and it took me more time than usual to quiet my restless mind and noisy heart. Our focus was sacred listening, and it was really an exercise in lectio divina, the ancient method of delving more deeply into scripture, and we did it through several of Jesus' parables. In addition to the guided meditations, I also continued reading, writing, and reflecting through The Cloister Walk, by Kathleen Norris, which I somehow up to this point had managed never to read. I am always amazed, even though I know it's going to happen, at the interplay and overlap of the things I'm reading, thinking about, and discussing with others. This whole weekend meshed and melded that way.

Our retreats frequently offer the opportunity for confession. I've always shuddered away from that in horror. Why would I ever want to do such a terrifying thing as telling my sins to another human being who is sitting in the same room as I am?! It's one to thing to confess to God, because God already knows the state of my heart anyway, but it's entirely another thing to tell someone who's blinking and breathing right in front of me.

I wasn't going to do it. I did not want to do it. I was feeling a push to do it. Oh darn; all of the slots were signed up for. After lunch Saturday, I felt terrible. I couldn't tell if it was what I ate, how much I ate, how quickly I ate it, or something else -- vestiges of my anger and frustration of the week? Or a different kind of blockage? I lay down for a nap, but when I woke, I did not feel any better. So I got up to walk. I grabbed my camera and headed up the hill. I didn't take a watch, so I am not sure how long I walked -- it was probably two or three hours. I walked fast, I walked slow, I stopped to take pictures, I stopped to just look, I did some yoga stretching, I prayed or I didn't, I laughed at the barking dogs, I spied on birds from hawks to hummingbirds, I enjoyed the views of hills and clouds, I luxuriated in the light and angle of the sun. I started feeling better near the end of my walk. When I returned to our silent meeting place in the library, more slots had been added to the confession sign-up list, so I signed up. I felt even better.

I did it. It was nerve-wracking . But it was useful. I have a lot to think about.

More later. The time change makes me sleepy. Oh, yeah, and so did the great conversation I had till three o'clock this morning! Back into the frying pan tomorrow. I still have a lot to say about the retreat, Kathleen Norris, Mary Oliver, Dante (of all things), and others. But not tonight.

The reason...

...for so many things. And so many things for this reason.


I'm too tired to be witty. Perhaps tomorrow I'll post an essay.

I have...

...absolutely nothing of value to say today. I'm tired. It's raining, which is nice. I didn't have the time or energy to shoot a photo today, so I'll use another or two from the retreat. Guess I'll get religious on y'all tonight.

My retreat reading material

I had never read The Imitation of Christ before. It's pretty powerful, but one must access it in metered doses. The book that is rocking my world right now, that dovetailed so perfectly with the themes of our retreat, is The Crime of Living Cautiously, by Luci Shaw. Just the title alone grabbed me. And the book is proving to be quite wonderful. I'll share with you a poem she includes, one by Richard Wilbur:

Anonymous as cherubs
Over the crib of God,
White seeds are floating
Out of my burst pod.

What power had I
Before I learned to yield?
Shatter me, great wind:
I shall possess the field.

Richard Wilbur
“Two Voices in a Meadow”
In About a Milkweed Pod

Retreatant: A Photo Essay

The breeze is cool. Stand in the sun if you want warmth. The sun, which glances off the ocean in the distance, which turns the eucalyptus into silhouette, which illuminates the cottontail I just saw hop across the pathway, is beginning to lower in the midafternoon sky.

I walk along the prayer path, camera in hand, ready to encounter God in nature. First I must remind myself to slow down. It is not enough to look. I must slow my pace, be still, know that he is God, know that the birds will come to those who go slowly, who stop, who wait, who breathe deeply and quietly.

One bird, a male, his brown mate hopping in the thicket below, sits, stares, refocuses, stares. He knows I am there, but he agrees to sit for a portrait, only if I don't come any closer.
The ruby-throated hummingbird knows I am there, too. He erupts out of his thicket, straight into the air, hovers and squawks with elegance, flies higher till I can no longer see him, even through my camera lens; then, mysteriously, invisibly, he returns to his thicket again, only to erupt for a repeat performance. He does this at least three times. I do not know if it is me he's trying to scare off or another intruding hummingbird. These ruby-throats all look alike to me at this distance.

The hawk pair wheels in the air, so high -- lazily, it appears from here -- but hunting is not a task for a lazy bird.

The flora here is part Southern California coastal, part Benedictine religious -- infinitely varied scrub, dotted with a nopale cactus here and and a few palms there, pines, eucalyptus and olive, flowers of purples and yellows and orange, one lone red tree leaf -- the embodiment of our lesson in perseverance -- a red-barked tree, and so many shades and variations of green and light that the eye boggles and tries to blend.

My smooth-stone bench is cool, the breeze lifts my hair, and the moon shows faintly, promising to shine tonight even after the coastal fog rolls in.

Retreated

We're back from said silent retreat. It was wonderful. Much to think about. Many challenges, much restoration. Too late tonight to write much, but I'll post a few shots...with promises of many more to come.

Run away, run away!

Retreat! POM and I are off to a silent Lenten retreat this weekend at an abbey down San Diego way. I'll do catch-up posting when we return Sunday evening or Monday.