Holy Innocents

Once in a blue moon, someone asks if I know any tunes for the Feast of the Holy Innocents (Dec. 28th). Hymns for the Holy Innocents are scant, partly because the biblical story most likely did not happen, and partly because there are still people around who want to limit the definition of "innocents" to infants killed by kings who feel threatened. Mostly, though, it's just a huge bummer to bring up the topic of lots of dead babies during Christmas week (Darling, can you pass the chocolates?).

I rarely see more than passing reference to the observation of the "Feast" of the Holy Innocents in hymnody, except Coventry Carol, (bye bye lully lullay?) and a verse in the zipper hymn for saints By all your saints still striving, which is so lame I can't bring myself to print it here (#232 in the Hymnal 1982). The gist of it is Rachel should cease her weeping, and God's got a good supply of crowns for all the dead babies who are better off now that they're at peace. Grr.

It's not as if the murdering of innocents isn't still going on by people who feel threatened, so why are we still surprised 2,000 years later, that the powers are still behind it in the most systemic and roguish ways, gunning down unarmed people on their streets and in their homes? How long will it continue? When will we rise up and make it illegal to kill unarmed citizens? I do not know, and most hymns for this day do not lend courage for this context, but rather make me wanna rage and scream about sugarcoating past realities, which of course gives us an out when we'd rather ignore present realities.

Each of us brings the gifts we have to the tasks at hand. My gift is melody, and the task as I have discerned it, is to write and pray the kinds of tunes I do not see or hear in the world or the church and share them in the hope that they might sink in, and we may all draw closer to seeing God in one another. Our lives together and unconditional love are so important that to forget to sing and pray about them from the heart with one another is to stall movement toward the realization of a beloved community. There are great depths to be plumbed before we can find the unity we co-create and cease our projections and judgments of one another. We must learn to communicate: to set aside intentional time in which to do this together in our communities and also in our homes, to invite all the stakeholders to the table, to encourage one another to speak our truths, and to find skillful paths through the knee-jerk reactions of fear, silence, and exclusion. Our lives depend on it. Hatred will not cease until we do it. Our children deserve to know that life is not a tug of war with a win/loss column. It takes showing up, slowing down, and hard work, which when undertaken with honesty, patience, and compassion, creates plenty of love to go around.

I wrote this tune for this text in 1983. The text is by Rosamond E. Herklots, and it's one of her best. If you can't read music, please read the text below (click to enlarge). The tempo is somewhere around 104 beats per minute. If you play it on guitar, see the last measure for a hint, and if you play keyboards, in my head it flows like Schubert's Gretchen am Spinnrade.

Finding Our Voices

This is an article I wrote for the Episcopal Church Foundation published last week in their Vestry Papers series. The title and section headings were chosen by them. The writing is all mine. Please comment and share.


What does your voice sound like to you? To others? How well do you listen? How well do you hear? How do you nurture your voice to be of greatest benefit to the community? Are you able to ask for what you need, and offer what you have to deepen your spiritual life?

What if a part our liturgical work is to pay attention to what God is birthing among and between us, and to deepen our experience of the holy through interaction and possibly even play? What if all creation is co-creation?
Is there a connection between finding – and raising – our voices and the Holy Spirit?

Singing and chanting together in worship is about more than praising God and making a joyful noise. If we allow singing and chanting to work their magic, they can be lifelong spiritual practices that enable us to join with others in deepening our ability to trust one another. They can allow to let go and reassess our perceptions and expectations of what it means to walk together in faith. And, they may help us to see the face of Jesus in the faces of those we encounter.

Begin with a New Song

I recently worshipped in a very traditional church in upstate New York. They’d decided to take a tour of Prayer Book liturgies from around the Anglican Communion, and the liturgy of the day was from the Kenyan Book of Common Prayer. I had been invited to help them with the music. Throughout the service I was reminded me how uncommon and beautiful common prayer can feel.

When people entered the church that Sunday, they found the back half of the church roped off so that we all could sit closer together. This led some to be taken out of their comfort zones before they even sat down. The choir was spread out throughout the assembly, sitting in small groups or with their families. The music director sat toward the back, where he could support the singing, and I was at the front.

The priest was nervous, but supportive and curious.

When I introduced the music, I mentioned that no one knew the tunes we were about to sing, or what was going to happen, so they would need to listen closely. I added if they needed help, the words were printed in the bulletin and they could turn to their neighbors and listen, as everyone in the room had a piece of what was needed to make this service as amazing as it could be. I encouraged them to take turns improvising other parts. Finally, I reminded us all to try thinking of this morning as group spiritual practice. I noticed they began to turn and look around at their neighbors. Then we made church.

We sang new songs in four different languages after only a one or two sentence explanation to convey pronunciation and translation and a few sung vocal cues that were already built into the hymns. We sang the Psalm over a drone (C-G), and a short while later we improvised underneath the Prayers of the People on the same drone. There was deep listening and graceful harmony. The singing of each tune became more confident as it progressed, and the end of the service felt like the last hallelujah in the Hallelujah chorus! There were many joyful, thankful, and teary people amazed at the beautiful experience they had made together. For some it was the first time they’d been encouraged to interact and sing together in church.

Helping Others to Sing

Sometimes God sends us to people: Are you willing to be changed by the people you meet? Sometimes God sends people to us: How do you stay open to the people God sends along? How do you invite and encourage them?
What if the joy we find singing our favorite tunes can be magnified by helping others to sing their favorite tunes?

Being open to and trusting the people whom God has sent us to work with can be the antidote to any discomfort that arises. When we find ourselves standing in a roomful of people we don't know very well or are asked to sing words we’ve never said before from a pew we don’t usually sit in, we can get very anxious and self-conscious. By letting go of our discomfort we free ourselves for a deeper connection with God and those God has sent to us.

Singing and chanting can help us to find our voices. Singing together with intention can help us to stay present and give us a place from which to practice staying open and curious. When we lend the strength of our heart’s voice to a community in song, the self-consciousness that we often bring to singing falls away, our walls fall away, our egos fall away. The anticipation that something transformational might happen shifts to the realization that something wonderful is already happening and we are a part of making it happen.

We have an incredible opportunity in worship services to travel with a group of people committed to a weekly gathering where discernment of gifts and lifelong spiritual growth can be invited, encouraged, and practiced together. Let’s sing it from the mountaintops.


We come to join in
the banquet of love,
let it open our hearts
and break down the fears
That keep us from loving each other.
- Dominican nun’s grace

Following the Way

This is the lesson on following the Way. Remember it.

How do you follow the way?
Go where you are sent.
Wait till you are shown what to do.
Do it with the whole self.
Remain till you have done what you were sent to do.
Walk away with empty hands.

How much will it cost?
The cost is everything, for all you are and all you have will be asked of you before the journey runs its course.

How will you know your fellow travelers?
Their faces are marked by the scars of love.

No one will ever tell you that the Way is easy: only that it is possible.

No one can tell you if the journey is worthwhile, for your wages are concealed in the hand of God, and will be shown you only on the last day of eternity.

But whoever chooses to follow the Way will have the joyous company of God's beloved fools as fellow travelers, and a resting place, at journey's end, in the Mecca of the heart.

This is the lesson on following the Way. Remember it.



Deep bow to Lisa for sharing.

What We Need Is Here

More often than one might think, a simple tune is the perfect vehicle for people to learn how to negotiate, re-mind, and re-claim the gifts and skills they already possess. What We Need Is Here is the most perfect simple song I know; its five small words pointing to the heart of gratefulness. Written by Amy McCreath, What We Need Is Here sprang from her reading the poetry of Wendell Berry.

The Wild Geese

Horseback on Sunday morning,
harvest over, we taste persimmon
and wild grape, sharp sweet
of summer's end. In time's maze
over fall fields, we name names
that went west from here, names
that rest on graves. We open
a persimmon seed to find the tree
that stands in promise,
pale, in the seed's marrow.
Geese appear high over us,
pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,
as in love or sleep, holds
them to their way, clear,
in the ancient faith: what we need
is here. And we pray, not
for new earth or heaven, but to be
quiet in heart, and in eye
clear. What we need is here.

By Wendell Berry, from Selected Poems of Wendell Berry

I've been teaching Amy's song for a couple of years now, and although I don't use it the same way every time and the people are always different (even when I use it twice with the same group), it always elicits beauty and astonishment as people experience themselves falling into a group growth mind-set they hadn't noticed, believed existed, or paid much attention to. I hear about it a lot, after the fact. Here's the latest shout out from Michael, who attended a retreat in Idaho:

"I've been talking quite a bit about the experience. I taught the choir "What We Need is Here" just to see how they would respond to stepping outside their comfort zone with harmony and in learning something without music. I could not believe the response. The harmony and movement were amazing, and they ended together automatically. The looks on their faces were priceless.

I have been trying to get this group to understand their talent for a long time. I've told them repeatedly how the music they say they can't sing is not beyond their ability but simply beyond their comfort level. I think they are starting to get it, thanks to what I learned."

Someone once said, "Most things aren't difficult, some things are just unfamiliar."

I say we know things we don't even know we know, and if we quieten ourselves, listen deeply, and allow ourselves to play with one another, we begin to hear them, and they will become more familiar and useful to us. As loving people. As a species. Even in a room full of people.

Thanks to Michael, his choir, and all the people at the Idaho retreats; to Wendell Berry for the last three sentences which remind me that abandon is a place we might be able to access in a group, that how far we go depends on our ability to cultivate quietness of heart and clarity of sight. Special thanks to Amy McCreath who has an uncanny knack for discerning the most important words and setting them to songs that turn out to be both simple and truly expansive. A fine gift.

Tune copyright Amy McCreath. If you'd like to use it, please ask.

The Lord is My Shepherd: The 23rd Psalm

Ten years ago, Beliefnet.com asked to license a recording of mine (Mother Ann's Song) to accompany an audiovisual meditation on The 23rd Psalm. It was their first video, my first licensing deal, and was the most popular meditation on their home page for years. It's been a long time since I thought about it, so when it popped into my head this morning, I went to find it. At first I had a hard time, wading through so many ads, navigating down and in, but I finally arrived at the Christian Inspiration page, where lo and behold, there it still is, in front of God and everybody. The visual design was done by Kaeshi Chai, an award winning designer and belly dancer. More than 2000 people have "Liked" it on Facebook (who knew?), and God-only-knows how many people have watched it so far. Check it out, you'll like it, too. If you know someone who's having a hard time this week, you can share it with them.

All blessings of the season to you and yours.

The Power of Prayer and the Politics of Hope

I met Walter Wink at Kirkridge Retreat Center around 1979, and I was quite taken with his theology. He spoke of a politics of hope and the myth of redemptive violence. Between 1984 and 1993, Wink wrote a trilogy: Naming the Powers: The Language of Powers in the New Testament ('84), Unmasking the Powers: The Invisible Forces That Determine Human Existence ('86), and Engaging the Powers: Discernment and Resistance in a World of Domination ('92). There are damn few theology books that leave me wanting more, but when I finished each of these, I could hardly wait for the next one to come out.

Wink's name came up today in a theology-nerd conversation, and I remembered a chapter on prayer. I went home and looked it up, soon realizing that his thought is important to re-view in light of the current, dis-jointed state of society, with everyone occupying everything everywhere except the only place that lasting change can ever really happen: our hearts. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for Occupying Wall Street. Let's occupy the halls of Congress, too, until such time as the corporations are removed as a source of election funding (see Lawrence Lessig's book Republic Lost, and if you think a Constitutional Convention is a good idea, check out the Nov. 16, 2011 article in the Atlantic, then we can occupy the State Houses and voting booths. But we'll keep getting stuck in the cycle of violence if we don't tend to our hearts. This is the great work of our lives. How do we tend to our hearts, when so much is going on? The exercise of prayer, especially praying for others (intercessory prayer) builds strong hearts twelve ways.

There is much work to be done, but first things first, because we need to be calm and strong and integrated and healthy and compassionate and aware and grounded and open and discerning and wise and innocent and grateful and so many other things that can only be made manifest by living from our hearts, so we can speak with our true voices, and not the dismissive, cranky ones that show up when we're doing a superior dance, or tired, or overwhelmed (picture a little kid saying "I'm NOT tired!"). God is on everyone's side, because there is no other side and there are no other people. Dealing with everyone God sends, requires equanimity. The willingness to listen and do the deep internal work of knowing and keeping watch over oneself, to develop the skills to balance the work of the journey in community, without flaring up or burning out, is crucial to our common life. Only then will be able to tease out the thousands of threads sewn together over the last 235 years, and build a better world together.

I still can't beam over to every crisis to kiss it and make it better. That is, however, exactly what is needed, and prayer and meditation are fine ways to travel, within and without. Feed the hungry, visit the sick, sing for the dying and the newborn, tend the weary, clothe the naked, educate so people can find meaningful work based on their gifts, sit quietly with those who mourn, look deep within and tend to what is dark, bring your A game to the community, here, there, and everywhere. If the inner work is done, the outer work is much smoother sailing. Don't believe me, see for yourself. Learn to quiet your mind so you can occupy your heart.

Here's an excerpt from Engaging the Powers: Discernment and Resistance in a World of Domination:

"Intercessory prayer is spiritual defiance of what is, in the name of what God has promised. Intercession visualizes an alternative future to the one apparently fated by the momentum of current contradictory forces. It infuses the air of a time yet to be into the suffocating atmosphere of the present...

The message is clear: history belongs to the intercessors who believe the future into being. This is not simply a religious statement. It is also true of Communists or capitalists or anarchists as it is of Christians. The future belongs to whoever can envision a new and desirable possibility, which faith then fixes upon as inevitable.

This is the politics of hope. Hope envisages its future and then acts as if that future is now irresistible, thus helping to create the reality for which it longs. The future is not closed. There are fields of forces whose actions are somewhat predictable. But how they will interact is not. Even a small number of people, firmly committed to the new inevitability on which they have fixed their imaginations, can decisively affect the shape the future takes. These shapers of the future are the intercessors, who call out of the future the longed-for new present. In the New Testament, the name and texture and aura of that future is God’s domination-free order, the reign of God...

No doubt our intercessions sometimes change us as we open ourselves to new possibilities we had not guessed. No doubt our prayers to God reflect back upon us as a divine command to become the answer to our prayer. But if we are to take the biblical understanding seriously, intercession is more than that. It changes the world and it changes what is possible to God. It creates an island of relative freedom in a world gripped by unholy necessity. A new force field appears that hitherto was only potential. The entire configuration changes as the result of the change of a single part. A space opens in the praying person, permitting God to act without violating human freedom. The change in one person thus changes what God can thereby do in that world...

Praying is rattling God’s cage and waking God up and setting God free and giving this famished God water and this starved God food and cutting the ropes off God’s hands and the manacles off God’s feet and washing the caked sweat from God’s eyes and then watching God swell with life and vitality and energy and following God wherever God goes.

When we pray we are not sending a letter to a celestial White House, where it is sorted among piles of others. We are engaged, rather, in an act of co-creation, in which one little sector of the universe rises up and becomes translucent, incandescent, a vibratory centre of power that radiates the power of the universe.

History belongs to the intercessors, who believe the future into being. If this is so, then intercession, far from being an escape from action, is a means of focusing for action and of creating action. By means of our intercessions we veritably cast fire upon the earth and trumpet the future into being."

Amen.

I give thanks for Walter, who led me to see the wisdom of integrating action and contemplation, for those who remind me of our capacity to change God's mind when the work of love demands it (go ahead and yell!), for those who taught me to pray for the cop who is arresting me (Hi, Elliot!) and my enemies, who are no different from me, and for those who continually teach me that we are instruments of love and peace, with the ability to blend our talents creatively in ways that include absolutely everybody. Keep up the good work, and I'll see you on the road.

At the border of stupid, cranky, and prayerful

Hold My Hope led by Ana Hernandez from All Saints Company on Vimeo.

I spent a couple of weeks in San Francisco in August co-leading workshops, playing drums, practicing sitting meditation at the feet of a beautiful Kuan Yin statue, eating home cooked dinners with great people, walking around, riding a bicycle on a roof deck overlooking Alcatraz (as close as I wanna get), seeing old friends, making new ones, and generally having a good time. One new friend took me on a whirlwind tour of Sonoma, where the wine is good, and the poached egg cups are adorable and made of silicon. It was almost like a vacation, except that I worked a lot and tried to behave myself. Who could ask for more?

As it turned out, I should have asked myself at least one thing more. When I travel there's often one thing I forget. On this trip, I was supposed to fly from San Francisco to Ottawa for a workshop. The afternoon before I was to leave, it dawned on me: my passport was sitting at home on my dresser. As Geoffrey Rush said in The King's Speech: "F***F***F***"! After a couple of phone calls and much more profanity, it was clear that I would have to fly home to NY and drive to Ottawa if I was to have any hope of making it to the next gig. So, I woke up with the birds and caught a 5:30 AM flight from San Francisco to Detroit, waited around for four hours and boarded a flight home. I arrived at 8:30 PM EDT, repacked my suitcase, packed the car, and went to sleep about 11:30. I set the alarm for 2 AM so I could get to the gig as close to 9:30 AM as possible, and headed north about 2:30 AM. It was very dark, and I was feeling substantially reduced, which is to say: pretty stupid, forgetful and small.

Luckily, the drive from my house to Ottawa is one of the most beautiful drives in the country, across I-84, up Route 17 to I-81, to the Thousand Islands, and into Canada. The dawn was stunning, I thought about old friends as I passed the Finger Lakes, then the Seneca and Onondaga Res in Nedrow. The sun came up over a lake just as I drove by, and the sky was an amazing blue that only happens in upstate NY in August. I drank coffee and sang the entire way to stay awake. I was feeling revitalized when I approached the Canadian border at 8:30 AM, at the Thousand Islands border crossing, one of the most beautiful places on the planet (I kid you not). That's when it dawned on me - I had to cross the border (begin singing either "Dragnet" or "Homicide" theme song here).

I'm sure there are many people who have no trouble at all at border, crossings, but I am not one of them. I am always treated to a long delay and a game of twenty questions. Maybe it's just me. Every time I have gone across the border except twice on my way to Mexico (?), I've been questioned about every conceivable subject by the border guards. I wish I knew the magic phrase, but I don't, and I usually get this: "Please pull over there, park your car and go inside. There's an agent waiting for you."
I've always suspected that this is code for "Ana Hernandez is not a white person's name", or, "You don't look normal. - don't forget! We'll do this every time you go anywhere as long as you live, because that's how racial profiling rolls." Of course, it might be me, but (switch to "Get Smart" or "The Wire" theme song here)...

Agent No.1: What is your purpose in coming to Canada today?
Ana: I'm on my way to Ottawa for a workshop on congregational singing.
Agent: Business or pleasure?
Ana: Both (WRONG. So wrong.).
Agent No. 1 looks right through me to Agent X, who is hovering around the back of my car, looking dour.
Agent No. 1: Please pull over to the left, etc...
Ana: dutifully does as she is told (not a normal response, but a handy trick in a pinch).

Agent No. 2: Why are you here?
Fantasy Ana: Because the man in the booth has no sense of humour. (It's hard to keep her quiet, that Fantasy Ana's got some mouth on her)
Actual Ana: I'm going to Ottawa to participate in a workshop on congregational singing.
Agent: "Where in Ottawa? How long will you be in Canada? Who is the sponsor? Where are you staying? How many people will be there? Who hired you? Why did they ask you? Are those CDs in the back of your car? How many do you have? What are they for? How many do you have? What are they for?" It was like talking to a broken record (at which point Actual Ana has to wrestle Fantasy Ana to the ground, or, end up in a Canadian jail).

After many more questions, over the course of an hour, later questions being very similar to early questions, my institutional delay ended abruptly. I guess it took an hour to search the car. I made it to the gig about 10:30 AM; still a little embarrassed, and pretty tired, but so glad to finally be there. I was asked to lead something shortly after my arrival, and the video above is what I did. I was surely not perfect, but the people were great. I noticed I don't smile at all when I'm really tired, so I've made a note of that. I was smiling inside, though.

The tune/prayer is Hold my hope. Hold my trembling. Hold my heart. Teach me to be love.

Directions for Chanting (stolen from John Wesley and modernized for the 21st.c)

Ya know how sometimes you pick up an article that you haven't read in years and realize that the first time you read it, some mystical information was passed directly into your soul, and then you realize that you are the way you are NOW because of what you allowed inside THEN? Here's something that was hard-wired into me about thirty years ago. I happened to open The Sacred Art of Chant: Preparing to Practice this week for no reason at all and there it was. Feel free to post it where singers, choir directors, and members of your local garage band will be sure to pay heed.
*********
*********
...It was originally published as "Directions for Singing" by John Wesley in his 1761 collection Select Hymns. I found it on a bulletin board in a choir room long ago, and have adapted the language to be a little more modern. I've tried to be faithful to the spirit of the original.

Directions for Chanting

1. Learn each chant thoroughly; take it to heart. Learn as many as you please this way.

2. Listen closely and try to sing the chants as they are taught, without altering or mending them at all.

3. Sing often with others, as frequently as you can. Don't decide to pass up a chance to chant with others because you're tired or stressed out. Go anyway, sing with your whole soul, and you will find it a blessing.

4. Chant with your whole body, and with good courage. Be careful not to chant as if you are half-asleep; lift up your voice with strength. Don't fear the sound of your voice, and do not be ashamed of its being heard by others. Aim for a unity of spirit. Your voice is a unique gift from God, given for your health and happiness.

5. Sing modestly. Don't bawl, or try to drown out your neighbor who doesn't sing as well as you, so you can be heard above and distinct from the rest of the group. Chant with the intent of making harmony, and strive to unite your voice together with other voices to make one clear, melodious sound.

6. Sing in time. Make an effort to identify and stay with the group pulse. Listen to the leading voices and breathe with them so you don't fall behind the group beat. This will help to entrain the group energy, and build a sound community.

7. Above all, sing spiritually. Have an ear to God in every word you sing. Aim at hearing God more than pleasing yourself or anyone else. In order to do this, attend to the sense of what you sing, and see that you don't get carried away with the sound, but offer your song to God and the group continually.

Bobby McFerrin Being Interview

Click on the title to see Krista Tippett interviewing Bobby McFerrin on improvisation, creativity, his upbringing, and life in general. This is one very rich and lovely hour for your life.

Spring Fling

I spent last week in Chicago, working with friends old and new. Two days were spent at an editorial meeting for a hymnal revision, while Wednesday brought me to the Lutheran School of Theology at the Univ. of Chicago with some friends. We had some church, talked with some students at lunch and sat in on a 3-hour class. The rest of the week I co-led a conference called "Music That Makes Community" at St. Luke's Lutheran Church in Parkridge. There were some people I'd met in Feb at a composers' retreat in FL, a UCC pastor who lives on a tiny island (Pop. 300) and is totally connected to spirit (we fell in love right off the bat), a spiritual director, a folk singer, a guy who leads centering prayer, a couple of youth ministers, a few other musicians, and a bunch of Lutheran pastors. I had altogether way too much fun with about 45 beautiful people, 35 of them complete strangers. I think most of them had fun, too. I've heard from about ten of them already and it's only been two days.

I always worry that I won't know what to do in the moment, that certain songs won't work their usual magic, that people won't be willing to step out of their comfort zones, or trust the group enough to let themselves be vulnerable (especially during the improvisation segment - sometimes they just can't let go - much to learn either way). A pastor came up to me and was so excited after the composing segment because no one had ever given him permission to compose before. I say "Why wait?" (RULE #13,879: It's better to ask forgiveness than permission!). There are always great tunes written at these things, and they're never by the people I expect.

I don't know why I always worry, it's not about me, and God is quite good at making new life, especially in Spring. I'm always amazed as I watch the people drop their defenses and enjoy the reality of playing together and building community. There are endless teachable moments as absolutely everyone is included, the playing field is leveled, differences are recognized, understood and honored. We learn about ourselves as much as we learn about others. There is a gracious sense of accomplishment as people find their places in our community of sound, as we learn to listen deeper, quiet our anxiety, support one another, play/sing off each other, and affirm the choices other people make by joining our voices with theirs.

People realize that roles change based on whether we're in a smaller or larger group, where in the room we choose to sit, how well or poorly we can hear what's going on around us, and about a zillion other variables. It's amazing how adaptable we are when we look for it, and what we can learn about ourselves in a roomful of people. The ways we can grow in compassion on the spot, even if we've never laid eyes on one another before are astonishingly lovely.

Here's a Rumi poem that was sent to me by someone after the conference. The Music That Makes Community conference was kinda like this:

Spring

Did you hear that winter’s over? The basil
and the carnations cannot control their

laughter. The nightingale, back from his
wandering, has been made singing master

over the birds. The trees reach out their
congratulations. The soul goes dancing

through the king’s doorway. Anemones blush
because they have seen the rose naked.

Spring, the only fair judge, walks in the
courtroom, and several December thieves steal

away, Last year’s miracles will soon be
forgotten. New creatures whirl in from non-

existence, galaxies scattered around their
feet. Have you met them? Do you hear the

bud of Jesus crooning in the cradle? A single
narcissus flower has been appointed Inspector

of Kingdoms. A feast is set. Listen: the
wind is pouring wine! Love used to hide

inside images: no more! The orchard hangs
out its lanterns. The dead come stumbling by

in shrouds. Nothing can stay bound or be
imprisoned. You say, “End this poem here,

and wait for what’s next.” I will. Poems
are rough notations for the music we are.



From The Book of Love: Poems of Ecstasy and Longing
by Jalal al-Din Rumi
translated by Coleman Barks

Really. Just sit.

I've been chanting Aham Prema (I am Divine Love/You Are Divine Love) for Lent. Whenever I change my practice around, adding or subtracting mantras, things pop up that I haven't seen in a while. Sometimes they pass, but sometimes they put on the *whole* show. Last week I was reminded that sometimes sitting meditation takes serious effort. To sit through the mental discomfort of monkey mind and do nothing is not always easy, and to try to befriend that discomfort is even harder.

In my last post I thought I was going to write about the four kayas (about how thoughts aren't born, don't dwell, don't end, how that's just their nature) and I kind of did, but I've found that the thoughts that annoy and confuse are especially useful to observe. I used to try to fix them, but somewhere along the way my view of reality shifted and I saw through them to the way I perceive reality. I was able to stay aware in my confusion. Whereas before I would catch myself after I'd shut down and closed myself off from the discomfort, I came to be able to stay open through it, which is to say that I was able to see *through* the thoughts, but also able to *see* through *them*.

Someone commented that they've NEVER had any success with meditation but might try it again after reading my last post. I heard the same thing last week from a workshop participant. I hear it a lot. Many people have a hard time with sitting meditation. Me too sometimes. My friend Sue commented: I know my early efforts at meditation were difficult because I am not used to "doing nothing." It takes effort to "just sit." But it's worth it. I agree, it's totally worth it, and the only way through is through. For what it's worth, here's what I do: I sit down, chant for as long as it takes to get my mind as quiet as the day will allow, then I just look, and try not to analyze; to be present, but not to hang onto anything, neither the bad nor the good, not even the realization that there's nothing to hang on to.

A thought is not always the same as it was the last time I had it. It's like reading a favorite poem: I am not the same person I was the first time I read it, and often a different passage speaks to me, but each poem is being read over and again because it has spoken to me before and may do so again - hopefully in a way that will lead me toward a more compassionate and open-hearted way of being.

The relationship I have with my thoughts during meditation has changed over the years, and although I have ways to bring myself back to the breath and to an experience of resting in equanimity, the mind is a wily critter and uses subtle trickery that I can only see through if I continue to look and listen, even at things I think I've already seen and heard.

Can you coax your mind from its wandering
and keep to the original oneness?
Can you let your body become
supple as a newborn child's?
Can you cleanse your inner vision
until you see nothing but the light?
Can you love people and lead them
without imposing your will?
Can you deal with the most vital matters
by letting events take their course?
Can you step back from your own mind
and thus understand all things?

Giving birth and nourishing,
having without possessing,
acting with no expectations,
leading and not trying to control:
this is the supreme virtue.

Tao Te Ching, by Lao-tzu, Trans. Stephen Mitchell

Don't plan. Just sit.

That's what I tell myself all the time. This particular habit, honed over decades, has fewer applications than you might think. I know I am not the only person who sits down to meditate only to be confronted with endless streams of mental list making. Once I was talking with a Zen teacher and she said to me "You're a planner." It took every ounce of strength to keep myself from saying "No s***, because it’s tiring when "time keeps on slippin' into the future” and I’ve missed the present moment again, or the last ten minutes worth of present moments. However, it also seems silly to plan to quit planning.

I can go for weeks when planning isn't my biggest problem, when I can just smile and go back to breathing in and breathing out, remembering that I am not the center of the universe and putting you there instead. Then, all of a sudden, a day will arrive where I am so impatient with myself that you'd think I was the center of the universe and have been doing it wrong all this time! Sitting quietly for 25 minutes can be a huge challenge. Can I sit with nothing on my mind? Can I remain attentive like a cat at a mouse hole? If something comes up, can I let it go and return to counting the breath? Not on those days. On those days I am hardest on myself. There's always another self-deprecating thought eager to replace the current one, and the gnarlier the thought, the easier it finds its way back onto my train of thoughts. Sometimes those days can last a week.

My brain is quick to provide an answer to almost any question it can muster, which makes me wonder about the efficacy of having a quick brain. The things that pop into my head run the gamut from brilliant and hilarious to ridiculous and snarky. Over the years I've discovered I'm not alone in having an uncontrollable mind, which discovery led me to other discoveries: 1) You and I are in the same boat more often than not, and 2) I can only be gentle with you to the extent I am capable of being gentle with myself.

“Self? Will I ever get better at this?” Self answers “That’s not the point. You don’t meditate to get better at meditating. Meditate to open your heart, to be more compassionate and less fearful and reactive.” “Uh, self? Is it working?” “How the hell do I know? Just sit. Breathe."

You have no idea how many times I've run that script. I’m pretty sure people won't mistake me for Jesus or the latest incarnation of the Bodhisattva of compassion anytime soon (another script I often run). I've been meditating for years, and still find myself sitting in front of my little altar trying to be compassionate toward myself, going back to the breath, breathing in my impatience and frustration with myself and everyone else's impatience and frustration with themselves, and breathing out patience and more for us all. I once read that you should begin with yourself. Easier said than done. I might understand the workings of my ego better than the workings of your ego, but I often have to stop myself from thinking it’s easier to fix your stuff, and drag myself back to the breath. Someone told me once “It’s not help if you haven’t been asked to help.” Sit. Stay. Remember to breathe.

Another thing I try to remember is to hold things lightly. Thoughts just happen, without prompting, and they don't stop coming. If I am able to let them go, there is always another thought eager to take its place. This is oddly comforting, because it means that thoughts are not solid, which means we don’t have to process every one. I also try not to fall into habitual patterns of reacting to the thoughts that pop up, which makes for some fun times on the zafu. I once wrote a haiku while I was trying to meditate. I don’t usually write haiku, so I dutifully labeled it “thinking” as it wandered by:

Flat smoke curls and twists
As I sit on my cushion
Thinking again, heh.

Occasionally I find a quiet place; sitting without thought. When I am given the grace of openness and quiet sitting for a few minutes, I'm often surprised, yet grateful for the space. If I look at the clock, I find that 35 or 40 minutes have passed and I have just been sitting, and I haven't scolded myself, not even once. I bow in thanks.

Forget Lent II: Practice Showing Love

Things come and things go. Some things remain fairly constant, some change with the seasons. Many change when we least expect it. Some are erased from the earth completely yet linger in memory or curiosity. Still, there are are things I'd like to be more constant and intentional about: loving neighbor as self, staying open, exercising, (add your list here).

I've been listening to and reading the news from the earthquake in Japan and the rest of the world. I don't know anyone who hasn't been. I've been praying about it all. Many people are praying about it all. Some are giving of their time and talent, as they say. Can't have too much time and talent. That's what gets things built, and rebuilt after all hell has broken loose.

There have also been lots of folks still musing about the season of Lent, even though I thought my last post was quite clear (Forget Lent). Much of this Lenten musing has taken the form of the ode to sacrifice and suffering. There are the usual run-of-the-mill "I'm giving up..." articles. I'm pleased to report that chocolate, smoking, profanity, cheese, sugar, and fat seem to be holding their own as the go-to choices. Some bloggers think we're in danger of losing the season unless we embrace sacrifice and suffering the way they've always done it ("OMG we've lost Lent!"). Another asserted that we should seek to suffer and sacrifice because Jesus did ("If Jesus jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge, would you?"), one person spoke of being mindful of the things of the world, the ways in which we use them, and walking lightly on the earth. I've come across only one other post about how to work with your heart.

I've been working on the ways of my heart (and mouth), and how to best to use them. I believe that there is enough suffering and sacrifice in the world without courting more, and that if we were to engage with one another as mindfully and heartily as we pay attention to how much water, gas, electricity, packaging material we use, how Jesus suffered, or how tax breaks are handed out, we would find ourselves whistling deep happiness in 4-pt harmony on the corner of Fruitful Road and Love Parkway.

Toward this end, for the last week I've been reciting the mantra "Aham Prema", a Sanskrit mantra which translates "I Am Divine Love" - in bed, on airplanes, at the beauty parlor, on my zafu - wherever I find myself with a couple of minutes to spare. (See last weeks post for the whole scoop on Aham Prema). One thing I left out last week about Aham Prema is that it also means "You Are Divine Love." This has always made sense to me, because I admit no essential distinctions between humans. I try to love myself enough to love you, and to love you enough to be able to love myself (and vice versa). Some of us are better at one than the other, but spiritual growth requires the ability to soften to both self and neighbor and engage reality on its own terms. Different realities require different responses. The pattern that worked yesterday may be useless today. It may even have the opposite effect, which may be good, or not. Pay attention. Don't try to cling to the ground you think you know. It doesn't exist.

I lead a lot of retreats and the one constant through all of them is that when people arrive, they are exhausted. It's the kind of exhaustion that manifests itself as aches and pains, facial tension, skepticism, and so much more. I'm not immune to these things either, but I consciously work at them every day (exercise, remembering to smile, spiritual practice, good food, 8 hours of sleep, and the occasional red wine, dark chocolate and a nap.

We run through our lives apace as events jostle us, and we harden ourselves so we don't really feel the effects. We think there's nothing we can do except work ourselves into the ground, often finishing, or arriving at the last minute. It's as if we think we are the only one standing between the success and failure of whatever enterprise we are working on. It's hard to be soft, flexible and open when going through life so highly defended. Contrary to popular belief, there are effects even if you do not feel those effects. As a matter of fact, if you don't feel them, you might look around and see what you are causing.

Here's a modest proposal: You can only go as fast as you can love.

That might cause suffering and sacrifice enough this Lent.

This week, my focus is on Aham Prema as "You are divine love". For the remainder of Lent, I'll recite Aham Prema as both I am divine love and you are divine love, because ultimately, the object and the subject of love are one.

Forget Lent: Practice Being Love

Nurturing love, kindness, and compassion are The Big Deal, but for most of us, the intention to try to create love and live a happy life while we're here is often put aside due to "the nature of things," which (as Edmund Burke once wrote) is a sturdy adversary. The nature of things causes us to forget. In his book Present Moment, Wonderful Moment, Thich Nhat Hanh writes:

"We often become so busy that we forget what we are doing or even who we are. I know someone who says he even forgets to breathe! We forget to look at the people we love and to appreciate them, until it is too late. Even when we have some leisure time, we don't know how to get in touch with what is going on inside and outside of ourselves."

We also forget that we are beloved of God. Lately I've been thinking again about how I might BE love, and the thought popped into my mind that with love, you can only become it by doing it. In order to be one with love, we must love. I was reminded of a mantra: Aham Prema (ah-HAHM PREH-mah) that means simply "I am divine love." The power of Aham Prema lies in its ability to take away our doubts and defenses and let us rest in nurturing love, light, kindness and compassion. Aham Prema is a mantra that we can hold in our hearts all the way through life's lessons. It softens our armor and helps us grow.

Let Aham Prema accompany you for the next forty days. Try whispering it to yourself 108 times once or twice a day, and see what you notice about your life and the people in it. It won't cost a dime and it takes less than five minutes. As you recite Aham Prema, try to accept that you are divine love (no small task, but true nonetheless); look at it in your cupped hands, hold the divine in your hands, hold it in your heart, breathe the divine love that's already in your heart. There is no place for anything but Aham Prema. Say to yourself "I am divine love." Try to grasp that. Know that you already embody this love for others. Know that you are divine love just the way you are.

108 Aham Prema's on the wall: (Ah-HAHM PREH-mah)

Aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema,
aham prema, aham prema, aham prema, aham prema.

Tag, you're it.

The Courage to Be Present

Here's a blog post worth its weight in gold. I'd been thinking about this very thing, and ta da! Here it is already written for us: Karen Kissel Wegela is a professor at Naropa University, and the author of The Courage to Be Present. The subtitle of her blog is Ancient wisdom from Buddhism for today's therapists and clients. Click on the title and you can find her regular blog at Psychology Today.

Taking a Fresh Start

When we get bollixed up, we can always start fresh.
Published on August 29, 2010

One thing that I have learned from my meditation practice is how to "take a fresh start." It seems like a simple thing to do, yet I have found that it can have a profound effect not only on my meditation practice, but also on the rest of my life. We can always take a fresh start.

When I began my meditation practice back in the 1970s, my meditation instructor told me that if I realized that I was no longer doing the simple breathing technique that I had been taught, I could just start over again. The particular practice I was doing at the time involved resting my attention lightly on the out-breath and as the breath dissolved into space letting the attention I had placed on it dissolve along with it. When distractions arose, the technique was to simply note them by silently labeling them "thinking" and to gently return my attention to breathing. This eyes-open practice is one I still often do as it provides a strong foundation for staying present and awake not only with myself but also with others.

Sometimes simply returning to the breathing technique isn't enough. As my meditation instructor told me -- only half-jokingly -- "If you are going out with your thoughts and labeling your breath, take a fresh start." Anytime we get all bollixed up and forget what we're trying to do, we can start over.

On the meditation cushion, this means just dropping the technique altogether. Just stop. Take a breath or two. Look around the room, notice where you are. Then, gently, bring your attention back to the meditation practice and begin again.

What I find to be profound in this approach is that we could recognize that every moment is a fresh start. We are always at the beginning; we are always just right here wherever we are. Most of the time we don't realize that all we actually have is the present moment. We act as though all the feelings and thoughts we ever had are still impinging on us right now. In some ways, that is so. We are always living with the consequences of our past choices and actions. The Buddha taught that when we hang onto our stories about ourselves, or about what we think has to happen next, we create suffering for ourselves.

Yet, the next moment is also completely open. We can begin anew right now. Instead of being carried along by the momentum of our habitual --and even mindless-- ways of being, we can recognize the freedom available in each moment.

When I am caught up in an argument with a colleague or my husband, the fruit of my meditation practice often arises as the recognition that I could be fresh and new in this very moment. Sometimes it is quite annoying, actually, to realize that I could just stop, take a breath, and start over. Sometimes I would rather hold on to the illusion that I'm completely right and the other person is completely wrong. Of course, the price of such certainty is usually alienation and pain. When I am willing to let my mind just open to the possibility of starting fresh, I can let go of a rigid viewpoint and begin to listen well. I might even hear what the other person is saying and respond in a useful way. When I can do that (or when the other person can do it first), the whole situation can become more workable.

As a therapist, I often work to support my clients in taking a fresh start. Katie, a woman in her 50s, has long had a conflicted relationship with her son. She recently moved away from a town near Tom and now lives across the country in a new place. When Tom was growing up, Katie was a practicing alcoholic and single mother. Tom, understandably, still carries a good deal of distrust toward Katie even though she has been clean and sober for over a decade. When I first met Katie she was trying to get Tom to forgive her, to be willing to connect with her, to really talk to her. It was, of course, quite painful for Katie that he was closed to those possibilities.

As we worked together, Katie increasingly learned to put herself in Tom's shoes and see how it made sense that he would be leery of her. She had, after all, let him down time after time when he was growing up. When she was drinking, she was often also verbally abusive and probably quite frightening to him. "What now?" she wondered. "If I stop trying to get him to talk to me, what do I do?" What Katie realized was that she couldn't change anything Tom chose to do now. What she could do was take a fresh start herself. By taking a fresh start, she could let go of her own agenda and see what happened next without expectations based on either her shame and regret about the past or her hopeful desires for the future.

Taking a fresh start is a way of letting go both of fear and of hope. It is coming back again and again to the present moment and seeing its open quality. One thing Katie did was to cultivate her own interests aside from her family. She became involved with a number of community groups and discovered a talent for organization and leadership. She found healthy ways of relating to others and received appreciative responses from these new friends.

Katie became quite good at recognizing that she was wanting something from Tom that she might never get. She was able to feel those feelings of longing in herself and to repeatedly let them be what they were. Being willing to start fresh meant letting the feelings be and letting them go, as well.

Katie discovered that she could call Tom to ask about her grand-daughter and then just listen. Instead of pushing for what she hoped for, she could keep opening up again and again to what was really happening. She discovered, as she really listened to Tom, that there were small ways in which they could connect with each other. For example, she could share his enthusiasm a recent accomplishment of his daughter. Over time, Tom has been beginning to be a bit more open with Katie, too. It will take a long time, if it ever happens, before Tom will feel relaxed with Katie.

Taking a fresh start can mean beginning a new life as Katie did by moving across the country. It can mean letting go on an agenda as she did by letting go of her desire to have the close connection she could imagine with her son.

Most importantly, it can also mean for any of us, taking a fresh start in any moment by coming home to ourselves and letting go of whatever it is we think must happen next. We could let ourselves have a sense of wonder and uncertainty-freshness at any time.

Incredibly Amazing Bran Muffins

These are my favorite muffins. You can refrigerate the batter for a month, which eliminates multiple messes, and makes you look even more magnificent to your people. If you have muffins left over when company leaves, they freeze like a dream. 

Makes 3-4 dozen

3-1/2 c.  all-purpose flour

1 c.        whole wheat flour

1/2 c.     flax meal

5 t.         baking soda
1 t.         salt

2 t.         allspice

1 t.         cinnamon

1            15 ounce box bran flakes w/ raisins

1-1/2 c.  sugar

1-1/2 c.  Splenda

4            eggs

1 c.        canola oil

1 qt.       buttermilk (or buttermilk powder + water, see below)

3 t.         vanilla

Combine the first seven ingredients in the largest bowl you have. Add the bran flakes, sugar, Splenda and mix. In a separate bowl, beat the eggs (by hand is fine). Add oil, buttermilk*, vanilla and blend. Pour wet stuff over dry stuff and mix well.

*If you use powdered buttermilk, add the powder to the dry ingredients, and the water with the wet stuff. 

To bake, preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Bake in paper muffin cups (about 3/4 full) for 20 minutes or until a toothpick comes out clean.

To store the batter, put it in a container with a tight lid. When you feel the need for magical deliciousness, don't stir the batter, just scoop it out  and drop it into muffin cups. 

I sometimes add 3/4 c. walnuts, or sliced almonds (to surprise myself).
Write the date on the container the day you make them, but don't expect the batter to last a month, even though it can. You'll be taking muffins everywhere...
Enjoy!

We All Need a Simple Tune

I spend a lot of time on the quest for a simple tune, hummed while washing the dishes or driving the car. A simple tune, humming me to the place that has been calling as long as I can remember. A simple tune, breathing me in and out, over and over, renewing my strength, bolstering my resolve. A simple tune, simple enough to be sung by everyone – simple enough so we can all forget for the moment about how we came to be humming this tune at this time. A simple tune that seems to be humming us toward the places we’re feeling called to. A simple tune, one that you can just sing because it gets you there, wherever you intend your “there” to be. Enough simple tunes for everyone, drawers filled with simple tunes showing up like mismatched socks – for the long line at the grocery store, for the waiting room at the hospital, for all of us at work, for getting the flu shot, for giving the flu shot, for rowing a boat, for the picket lines, for the library (a very soft, simple tune), and for taking out the garbage (accompanied by trash can lids). Tunes for unexpected guests arriving at inappropriate times (I think the beginning of that one is “Where have all the towels gone?”). Tunes to usher us in and out of all the transitions, big and small: tunes for the births and deaths, the long healings (maybe a nice, slow, green tune), the not-healings, the uncertainties, the not-having-a-clue-what-to-do-next-times. A tune to give us the guts to speak the truth to power, another to help us hold our tongue when we are about to blow it by speaking that last terrible thing, and one to help us stop and make ourselves rest before we run out of emotional, physical, and spiritual gas.

A simple tune that calls forth the vibrations around us and brings me out of myself to experience them with you. A simple tune to help me pray and to help me to help you pray and another for when we’re apart (and maybe one or two that you only share with God). A simple tune to help me hear through your pain and anger to what you are trying to say, and another to help you to hear through my pain and anger (maybe that’s the same tune, or maybe we just sing it backwards and meet in the middle). One to assuage guilt and shame. A simple tune to help us manifest our sweetest selves. Another to help us settle down and listen to the wind in the trees, one to sing along to the rhythm of the waves, one in thanksgiving for the beauty of the rivers, one for the lakes, and one to hum with the owls (or the dog, or the cat) as we drift off to sleep.

         

A simple tune to help us all reach the place where the world is breathing, has been breathing since before breath and spirit were the same thing. A simple tune to renew our spirits, tune us up, find our balance, and keep us attuned. A simple tune to make you laugh. A simple tune to calm the babies before they sleep (there are a lot of these around already – may desperation drive us to song in other situations as well). A simple tune for the bad dreams, to ameliorate them and restore us to our sweet selves (this one might be a four-part chant, but “rain, rain, go away” comes to mind).

Sure, simple tunes can be hard to come by in this world that seems so often out of tune. But a wise man once said, “Sometimes heaven is just a new pair of glasses.”

Excerpted from The Sacred Art of Chant: Preparing to Practice, by Ana Hernández ©2005, Skylight Paths Publishing, Woodstock, VT

Making compassion cool: an interview with Karen Armstrong

I'm not sure that compassion has ever been uncool, at least not with me, but even I'm not foolish enough to think we've manifested all we need to get by (You're all I need to get by... everybody sing! God, the stuff we can do without apps!:).

Click the title for the follow up interview to Karen Armstrong's TED award. TED funds ideas worth spreading. Karen's idea was The Charter of Compassion. It's worth reading. Here's a link to the original TED award speech, in case you missed it.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SJMm4RAwVLo

Enjoy the day.

Poems and Prayers

I read a lot of poetry, but not too much. I once made the mistake of reading every book of poetry in the Brightwaters Public Library on Long Island in too short a time, and didn’t feel like reading any more poetry for a very long time. I read through the section one author at a time, and it might have been too much Robert Lowell that drove me from poetry, but there were others toward the end of the alphabet that were irksome as well. Lately, poetry comes once a week, making sure I read someone new, someone old, and someone borrowed. I occasionally skip the truly blue. Wasn’t it T. S. Eliot who said that humans cannot bear very much reality? Well, he was right. It's taken practice to remember that it’s easier to open to life’s more painful aspects, rather than just shutting down. I wish I’d begun that task a little sooner.


First thing this morning came the hard news of a friend in trouble. Seems this week has been filled with friends in trouble, strangers in trouble, countries in trouble, mothers and brothers in trouble; even I had my small share over the weekend. But this morning's news hit hard and shook me. So, I turned to poetry. I had been rereading Elizabeth Cunningham’s Small Bird: Poems and Prayers, specifically her poem Healing Song, in thanksgiving for my trouble leaving me in peace, but this morning I opened the book again and I found this:

Broken Home

Everything is here to stay,
one with the place we forgot to call home.
Shake the dust from your feet
and it remains the ground beneath them.
There is only change, river becoming rain
becoming river, fallen leaves
feeding the roots of trees feeding leaves,
the slow redemption of rot.
It is the indestructible that destroys,
the things that won’t break down
that may break us – unless
we break first, as an egg shatters
to release the bird
or a seed splits open and
takes hold in the earth.


Healing Song

At your feet, the earth
In your womb, the sea
In your belly, the fire
At your center, the sun
In your heart, the flower
In your throat, the sky
On your brow, the moon
At your crown, the star
In your hands, the earth.


It's funny how I never really saw these two were on facing pages until this morning. I suppose I never needed them at the same time before. Be well.

Elizabeth Cunningham is the author of The Maeve Chronicles, trilogy (so far) about the Celtic Mary Magdalen, and much beautiful poetry.

Prayer and the Facts of Life

“Prayer is the contemplation of the facts of life from the highest point of view.”

Ralph Waldo Emerson’s words usually seem worth reading but rarely move me to action. So why I felt as though suddenly struck by lightning upon reading these words the other night is beyond me. Truth be told, I wasn’t even reading Emerson at the time I stumbled across them. I was reading an essay about him by Mary Oliver in her book Long Life: Essays and other Writings. She went on to say “and suddenly that elite mystical practice seems clearer than ever before, and possible to each of us.”

Why does prayer often seem like some elite mystical practice? And how can we reclaim the straightforwardness of Emerson’s definition for the benefit of absolutely everyone? It’s not as if I possess the highest point of view; surely that can’t be said. I have on occasion been known to contemplate the facts of life (and all manner of life) in their broadest manifestations, and my vision has been stretched, kneaded, shaped, baked and sometimes burnt by what I see. But I keep looking. I’ve always been frustrated by my inability to explain to people why I find praying, and especially praying for other people (intercessory prayer), to be crucial for our formation as human beings. Far too many words have been written about prayer that make it seem as though words themselves are necessary to the endeavor, but the sentence “Prayer is the contemplation of the facts of life from the highest point of view” seems to sit at the edge of the cliff of words. Emerson encourages us to leap (or at least fall) into the lap of God without even a dictionary.

I think that one of the reasons this sentence struck me is its compactness— its beauty, the way it just lies there all taut and pretty, yet daring us to open an entire universe. Perhaps it is the depth of its simplicity. Maybe it’s the way it encourages us to deal with the facts from a high perch. I often deal with them from a lower vantage point, not quite sure what’s going on or what to do about it. I almost never have the whole picture or story, only my small piece of it, often accompanied by the feeling that I might be missing some fact or other that might change my mind, which is ultimately the only part of me worth changing.

The way the sentence affirms contemplation feels good to me, because I prefer prayer with as few words as possible, and it's always nice to be affirmed. However, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, the facts of life have a tendency to make themselves known, ebbing and flowing according to all need and desire. Why those facts pop up as soon as I sit on my cushion I cannot tell you, but at some point I just decided that too must be a fact of life. Frequently the facts are fuzzy, accompanied by a feeling or a sense about something or someone, and I don’t know what it will ultimately be about, or what will happen in the long run. I’ve come to expect it, because I can’t possibly know everything, and life’s too short to miss. I used to let everything get to me, internalizing all manner of debris that wasn’t mine. Then one day I read a Chinese proverb:

You cannot prevent
the birds of sorrow
from flying over your head
but you can prevent them
from building nests in your hair.

I put the saying on my refrigerator immediately. Sometime later, I began to notice that every time something heartbreaking, unfair, distasteful, corrupt, or evil would rear its head, there was also, still, a breathtaking beauty surrounding us. I made a pact with God that we would deal with whatever or whoever walks through the door. It was like opening the door to opportunity, and I’ve never looked back.

Which leads me to the real reason I’m in love with Emerson’s sentence: it opens the door of prayer to absolutely everyone. It’s not fussy, you don’t need to learn any particular rituals, be on your knees, in the half lotus position, or bring two forms of ID. There’s only us and our ability to open to the highest point of view; often something barely perceptible and of crucial importance, requiring us to be still and allow life the freedom to wander by, letting it fill us with the energy to bring the best we have to offer to bear on the facts of our lives.