Moving, Moving, Moving

I am in the process of moving from one apartment to another within the next week. It will be the first of two moves this summer. It is unsettling to say the least, but I am reminded that movement--conversatio morum, change of life, "continual conversion and ongoing transformation"--is as much a part of Benedictine life as stabilitas, stability. It is all part of the opus Dei, the work of God.

The quote above is from Benedictine scholar Esther de Waal's book To Pause at the Threshold. I read this book four years ago at this time when I was contemplating a change after receiving my first seminary degree. (A notation I made in the book even reads "5/06.") I've re-read the portions I had highlighted almost yearly since then. Today the following jumps out at me:

"Our God is a God who moves and he invites us to move with him. He wants to pry us away from anything that might hold us too securely: our careers, our family systems, our money making. We must be ready to disconnect. There comes a time when the things that were undoubtedly good and right in the past must be left behind, for there is always the danger that they might hinder us from moving forward and connecting with the one necessary thing, Christ himself. ... I am called upon to move forward to hand over the past freely, putting it behind me, and moving on with hands open and ready for the new." (p. 55-56)

So amidst the boxes, packing tape and markers, I am preparing to do just that--both inwardly and outwardly. The next time I write, it will be from a new place in all senses of the word. Stay tuned.

Teen Travails

Last week at this time I was preparing for my newly minted sophomore and Favorite Youngest Daughter (FYD) to come home with all of the stuff she had accumulated during her first year of college. I was also preparing for my space to be invaded.

And I was going to be prepared this time. On her journeys home during the year FYD had done a couple of things that disappointed—and well—annoyed me. Once after I had prepared her favorite meal, she didn’t come home until nearly midnight. The next time, not to be caught again, I didn’t prepare her favorite meal. Instead I sat up worrying about her until I finally texted her, and she blithely answered, “I’m spending the night with ... .“ When she finally arrived home, she got an earful about when-you- (no matter that you are 18 and of legal age) are-staying-with-anyone- (especially me) you-need-to-let-me-know-what-your-plans-are-that’s-common-courtesy.

Other times she brought a friend or friends who stayed up all night giggling in the living room or who slept three-a-bed until after noon. Then—as she had done since she was three years old (I know mothers of the world, I should have trained her better)—she would insist she had to use the bathroom at the exact same minute that I did or that she had to take a shower right now when I was commencing my leisurely bedtime routine. And let’s not even get started on the unrinsed dishes in the sink and the clothes heaped on the floor.

But this time, I was going to lay down the law about how the bathroom would be shared, kitchen should be cleaned, clothes kept and comings and goings noted. Then she came home.

All my good intentions and preparations fell apart. Actually that happened even before we left her campus. We had several emphatic (as in “I am not yelling, I am being emphatic!”) discussions about her desire to live off campus next semester—and her not signing up for on-campus housing as back-up. If she had not fallen asleep in the car, I’m sure we would have had a very unpleasant ride.

When we arrived home after unloading only half the car because of exhaustion, I nearly locked her out of the bathroom so I could quietly pursue my bedtime preparations. The next day she slept half the day as worn-out college students do and then insisted that we stock up on her favorite foods before we finished unloading the car. I should have known that the never-take-your-child-to-the-grocery-store rule extends into young adulthood. I ended up spending more money in one trip that I had in the last month. I admit it was partially guilt for so artlessly setting boundaries the night before.

The trip to the grocery store made us late getting in line for the Corinne Bailey Rae concert that was her belated birthday present. FYD was not happy. She let me know she was not happy. I was not happy with her either. After a series of quietly heated exchanges, I finally had to move to another seat on the shuttle bus. As we stood in line at the venue, both still seething, a friend of mine came up. We agreed to sit together, because my progeny had already told me that she was going to be standing in front by the stage—by herself. And she did.

Later my friend, a former seminary classmate, told me about her travails with her own daughter at that age. She mentioned something about an opportunity for grace-filled responses. I tucked that away.

FYD was ecstatic after the concert. She was like a different person. She had met and posed with the singer who preceded Rae, wrangled a copy of the set list from a roadie and took almost 1000 pictures of her idol from her vantage point in the front row (where she stood for four hours in cowboy boots).

I, on the other hand, was through. I had also stood most of the time, but I couldn’t see anything. Since I’m only 5’1” without shoes, even with two-inch clogs, when other people stand—which they did—they block my view. And I was tired from the trip the day before. And it was late, later than I usually want to be out. I did break down and buy her the signed poster she wanted, but still my child chastised me for not being as cheery and perky as she was.

The rest of my week was really busy with school year closing and COR activities. Since FYD had been keeping a vampire sleep schedule, we barely spent any time together. I briefly wondered if we—who often seemed to communicate almost telepathically in the past—would ever be on the same wavelength again.

Meanwhile I’d been inwardly raging at Saint B. “You’ve never raised a teenager. You’ve never been a mother dealing with the complicated relationship we have with our daughters. And you’ve certainly never been a single mom with no one to shelter you from the emotional blows from the one you carried in your womb and subsequently rearranged your body trying to get out." (And if Saint B were a teenage girl, he would retort, “Well, I didn’t ask to be born.”)

Of course, I had to pause. Saint B, though neither a woman nor a mother was certainly single, and, apparently he did raise teenagers. He talks about it in the Rule. He calls them “the young” or “juniors” and even speaks specifically of 15-year-olds—an age few mothers want to re-visit with their teenage daughters.

Then this morning I had a thought. My daughter and I had been so at odds that we had not even embraced when we first saw each other. In fact we did not even sit close to each other until last night when we watched a movie together on the couch. How could we establish our telepathic connection when we had not even reconnected by touch?

Saint B talks in chapters 53 and 63 of The Rule about exchanging the “kiss of peace” not only with guests but also with “brethren (daughteren, in my situation?).” How much more should I do this with my own child? So the real issue is not about a returning teenager. It is about me welcoming the fruit of my womb “like Christ,” according to chapter 53. (See http://www.osb.org/rb/text/rbeaad1.html)

FYD is out now with her friend. When she comes back she will receive a big, long, warm, rocking hug and several kisses like I used to give her when she was little. Even if she resists, which I already know she won’t, I will know that I have done my part to heal our rift.

I suspect Saint B would approve.

God: Hands and Hips

When I sat in God’s lap one morning, my eyes landed on the beeswax candle I had made on a pilgrimage last month. I smiled remembering how I had felt slowly rolling the sheet of beeswax ever so gently around the cotton wick. The texture of the sheet felt good pressed against my fingertips. It seemed to take on a life of its own as I stroked the beeswax upwards to smooth the top into a conical shape. I then placed my thumb flat against the bottom to make it able to stand on its own. The beeswax scented my fingertips for the rest of the evening.

While rolling the beeswax and shaping it into the candle, I had thought about nothing but what I was doing. It was as much a meditative act as walking the canvas labyrinth later on. As I walked I could feel the cool, uneven stones beneath my feet. Before I walked, I had taken a ribbon on which I had written “abundance” and tied it to a cherry blossom branch in the front of the chapel where the labyrinth was nestled. After placing the ribbon and before walking the labyrinth, I had also lit a scented tea light candle. The candle sat among ones that had been lit by other pilgrimage participants. I used the flame from one of those candles to light mine. Later during reflection time I said that I had been on many pilgrimages, but I had never been on one so tactile.

I’ve been thinking about tactility and corporeality since then. Every week when I go to the Cathedral Center for Prayer and Pilgrimage, I do something tactile. It may be something as simple as lighting a candle in front of the icon in the Still Point, writing out a prayer, or cutting out a simple icon I have written and pasting it into my journal. This past Saturday, I picked the dried blossoms off the dying cherry tree branch and placed them in an envelope for a future project. Next week I may untie the ribbons and put them somewhere for safekeeping, or, as someone suggested, tie them to a tree outside the Cathedral.

According to chapter 31 of Saint Benedict’s Rule, “… [We] should regard all utensils and goods of the monastery as sacred vessels of the altar, aware that nothing should be neglected.” I interpret “regard” as to mean not only to think about but also to handle. Of course when those of us who are Christians partake of communion, we hear the invitation to come to the table, see the Eucharist vessels, touch the bread, and smell and taste the fruit of the cup. I have come to believe that the other things we can touch, see, hear, taste and smell are as important to our spiritual lives as any ritual we partake of, sermon we hear or song we sing. Beyond those, I have found that the things that we use and do each day can also make the sacred accessible.

The Friday after the pilgrimage when I attended a day of celebration at a university with which I am affiliated, I participated in a Zumba© class. Outside. In the sunshine. On the lawn. In front of hundreds of people. Zumba© is an aerobic dance class based on the rhythms of Latin America (think salsa and merengue). In the 80s I had hated aerobics because moves like the “step-ball-chain” made me feel as if I had four left feet. Even before that I was not known as a dancer. (In fact, my children have asked me repeatedly not to dance—or even move to music—in their presence.)

So why was I dancing as if no one was watching? Because I was full of joy and that seemed to be the only way to express it. I danced clumsily missing the beat more than once. I danced modestly—I still can’t bring myself to wind or to shake my you-know-what. But I danced joyfully, happy that God made hips to swivel (you don’t have to believe it, but I do).

When there is nothing more left to say about God—or any transcendent experience—dancing or doing something with our hands, may be one of the only adequate forms of expression left. Go back in time and watch Miriam, the sister of Moses, who danced after the Israelite’s deliverance at the Red Sea or fast-forward to King David who danced before the Lord God and everyone else in the city. Fast forward again to an African American, Latino, African or any given charismatic church and watch people stand up, sway, raise their hands, wave their bulletins, and sometimes break out in a holy dance or run down the aisle. Look a group of teenagers or young adults listening to the music of their generation. They chant lyrics and move in exultation of the shared experience of being young.

I like to think I serve a God who “Kneeled down in the dust /Toiling over a lump of clay/Till He shaped [me] in His own image,” as poet James Weldon Johnson so eloquently wrote in his poem “The Creation.” (See http://www.bartleby.com/269/41.html for the complete poem.) This is a God who not only handled elements of the earth, but also designed a human body that can step, glide and leap across the surface of the earth. I accept God’s creativity as an invitation to participate fully in the life given me. And as I believe God created, I receive permission and inspiration to create: icons, blogs, candles, and dances.

I don’t know if Saint B enjoyed 6th century dancing (at least before he became a monk), but I can’t imagine the 21st century without multiple opportunities to glorify God with my body—hands and hips.

Sitting in God's Lap

Almost every morning I sit in God’s lap. The best light in the room hovers over God’s lap. On clear days the sun shines through the tree outside my window, illuminating me in this place. During winter’s gloom, I receive energy and inspiration from her embrace. My daily intentions and prayers emanate from God's lap. And my best thoughts come to me while nestled there.

God’s lap is is where I sit cross-legged to pray, meditate, read, journal and blog. More specifically it is a circa 1970s chair that looks like a short chaise longue--or a long-seated chair.

But God’s lap has a secret. She is held together by duct tape. Because she is made of what feels like pleather, the tape holds firmly to her. I know I should send her somewhere to be re-upholstered, but I can’t imagine life without her. Despite—or because of—the layers of duct tape that bind God’s lap, she has shaped herself to my form.

God’s lap has not always been this way. When she first came to me she was perfect and whole, but she reeked of cigarette smoke. The person who brought her to me, my former husband, knew I would like her so he overlooked the smell. I couldn’t, so she sat alone for quite a while until the smell dissipated. From that time on she held a place of honor in my home.

During a move heavy boxes were placed upon her. She developed a large rip in her seat. My solution at the time was to cover her with a wonderful brown and cream cloth with a tribal motif. I added pillows that I had made from a deconstructed vintage African dress and a swath of gold-colored raw silk.

Other things covered God's lap as she moved from place to place with me throughout the past 15 plus years. No one but my children and I knew her secret until she had to be moved and was stripped of her covering. I began wrapping her in a sheet to protect her from further harm during those too-frequent moves. Still she lost the brassy caps that covered her wooden feet.

While I was in seminary, I found the brilliant yellow chenille throw that covers her today. One morning while lowering myself to sit in God's lap, I felt the rip expand and her stuffing pop out. I pulled back the throw, grabbed a roll of my younger daughter’s duct tape (she was making duct tape purses at the time) and patched God’s lap back together. A couple of weeks ago, the strain of being sat on pulled away some of the original tape, so I re-patched her. Though heavily bandaged with shiny gray tape, God's lap has become even more comfortable.

So what does my comfortable, duct-taped chair have to do with Benedictine life?

Last weekend Father Simon McGurk, OSB, the prior (the head monk in charge) of St. Anselm’s Abbey (http://www.stanselms.org), the only Benedictine monastery here in Washington, DC, spoke to the Community of Reconciliation about the role of the cloister in Benedictine monastic life. (Visit: http://www.nationalcathedral.org/events/COR20100424.shtml)

According to The Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, which runs a branch of the museum dedicated to medieval art and architecture called The Cloisters:

The cloister [is] the heart of a monastery. By definition, it consists of a covered walkway surrounding a large open courtyard, with access to all other monastic buildings. Usually attached to the southern flank of the church, a cloister [is] at the same time passageway and processional walkway, a place for meditation and for reading aloud. At once serene and bustling, the cloister was also the site where the monks washed their clothes and themselves. (http://www.metmuseum.org/works_of_art/collection_database/the_cloisters/the_cuxa_cloister/objectview.aspx?collID=7&OID=70010742)


(For a from-inside-the-cloister description, visit http://www.religiouslife.com/glossary.html#C)

Father Simon talked about how when he was traveling or on assignment away from his monastery-of-origin based in England, he had to learn to take the cloister with him. He didn’t use the exact words, but I understood he was talking about the “cloister of the heart.”

Since we live outside monastery walls, I understand my cloister of the heart to be that place that nourishes, centers and anchors me. It is the place I take with me into the world to remind me of my intention to live according to my Rule for the glory of God and the good of the people around me. (For more about the cloister of the heart, see Carl McColman’s blog http://anamchara.com/2009/09/30/cloister-of-the-heart/. McColman is an author and blogger who writes about contemplative spirituality among other things.)

During our monthly Creating a Rule of Life meeting that usually follows a weekend teaching, our facilitator, Greg, asked us about the cloisters in our lives. Of course, I said God’s lap is my cloister. And being the fearless facilitator that he is, Greg, listening carefully, asked me to explain why. After I had babbled about duct tape and vintage plastic for a few minutes, Greg said, “Listen to what you are saying.” He helped me to see that God’s lap has been not only a cloister, but also a companion on my journey.

God’s lap would look pretty shabby without her bright yellow covering, but she is held together, as I am, by the grace of God and the support of friends.

Lyrically Speaking

Two weeks ago one of the COR members, Charlene, sent an email to me via our Fearless Facilitator, Greg. The email contained the lyrics to a song. Commenting on the Chittister quote I mentioned last week, Charlene wrote, “I highlighted the portions that reminded me of things [Vikki] spoke of.”

These are the lyrics, in part:

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in.

I loved the lyrics, but I didn’t pay attention to the song title. When I had more time I asked Charlene for the title and the author and did an Internet search. As some of you may already know, the song is “Anthem” by Canadian singer/songwriter and poet, Leonard Cohen.

I had heard Cohen’s name before, but had never consciously followed his music. I remembered seeing his name come up in the newspaper (he had won a Lifetime Achievement Grammy in January and had been inducted in to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2008). When I searched YouTube for a hearing of the song, I was enchanted by his mournful voice (once described as a “vampire baritone”)—somewhat like Bob Dylan, but more tuneful and poetic.
(See http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_e39UmEnqY8&feature=related)

I watched video clips of not only Cohen in performance but also his back-up singer, Sharon Robinson. Over and over again. I was captivated by their music and his poetry. I also noticed that Cohen had written the song “Hallelujah” which many of us with children recognize as the song sung by Rufus Wainwright in the first “Shrek” movie. I had adored that song from the moment I heard it and had wondered who had been inspired to write it. Now I knew, but I wanted to know from where his inspiration flowed.

Given my journalistic tendency toward immersing myself in a subject, I read as much as I could about Cohen. I was almost not surprised to discover that he, an observant Jew, had spent five years in a Zen Buddhist monastery in Los Angeles, before touring again at age 74.

One New York Times article I read notes:

… Mr. Cohen appears to see performance and prayer as aspects of the same larger divine enterprise. That may not be surprising, coming from an artist whose best-known songs mingle sacred concerns with the secular … “There’s a similarity in the quality of the daily life” on the road and in the monastery, Mr. Cohen said. “There’s just a sense of purpose” in which “a lot of extraneous material is naturally and necessarily discarded,” and what is left is a “rigorous and severe” routine in which “the capacity to focus becomes much easier.” … About the meaning of those songs, Mr. Cohen is diffident and elusive. Many are, he acknowledges, “muffled prayers,” but beyond that he is not eager to reveal much. … Zen has also helped him to learn to “stop whining,” Mr. Cohen said, and to worry less about the choices he has made. “All these things have their own destiny; one has one’s own destiny. The older I get, the surer I am that I’m not running the show.”

(From http://www.nytimes.com/2009/02/25/arts/music/25cohe.html?_r=1)

Cohen’s obvious discipline inspired me. Last week after I confessed in this blog that my Rule of Life was in disarray, I sat down with the notes I had written in my journal and the sticky notes plastered to its pages and actually typed out a more orderly Rule. Then I loaded it into my PDA, sent it to myself at two different email addresses and printed it out. I now have my Rule in three different forms. I no longer have any more excuses to ignore it. It’s not perfect (but that’s not the goal) and maybe not even complete (and maybe never will be), but I’m allowing it to shape my life.

And because Charlene reached out and connected with me via Cohen’s song, four of the things I wrote in my Rule came to fruition. I discovered a new source of beauty in Cohen and Robinson’s work that I will be sure to spend many happy hours exploring. I feel as if I have found another kindred soul not only in Cohen but also in Charlene. Today my apartment was a more hospitable place for me because it was filled with the music that I too often forget to play. And when I stepped outside in the larger world, the harried Metro bus driver received, instead of my usual distracted acknowledgment, my smile and kind words.

I believe Saint B would be pleased.

My first encounter with Saint B

The Rule of Benedict begins with the words, “Listen carefully, my son …” Already you can see my problem. Apparently this isn’t meant for me.

When I first heard of Saint Benedict and his Rule six years ago in a seminary church history class, the whole idea repulsed me. But as someone who has had an almost lifelong love/hate relationship with organized religion, at the same time I was enchanted.

Benedict formed his community as an antidote against the decadence around him, according to Benedictine nun and scholar, Joan Chittister. Institution-weary as I was when I entered seminary, that was something I could somewhat relate to. In that class I also found out that Benedict had a sister, Scholastica, whom he seemed to treat as a full partner. That made me a little more kindly inclined toward Saint B, as I have come to call him.

But still I had to get through what appeared to me to be the kow-towing to abbots and priors, apparent monk-abuse (beatings were allowed), and the monastery fashion police who allowed monks only two garments (however these garments were supposed to be “fitted to the wearers”—that was a plus), described in the Rule.