The air outside has been so light and buoyant the past few days that I have had this strong desire to lift my arms and fly! Looking out over these cliffs, over this river, I see an eagle gliding above- and have to remind myself that I do not have wings, but only feet that they are fixed firmly and humanly to this ground.
This feeling of rising is almost like falling in love. My heart yearns to dissolve into something larger than myself. But like sweet infatuation, I am also disoriented- running up against spiritual paradox. Before me the chasm opens to reveal not only light, but darkness, and I longingly seek the eyes of the beloved to find my way home.
~
I write of this spiritual paradox now, in these strangely mystical words, because there are too many things that happen daily which leave me breathless and disoriented- sometimes with awe and hope, sometimes with fear and despair, and most often with a profound sense of both. In the end, when all is said and done, and the events of the day have dissolved into deeper meaning, I am left holding in my hand only a stone of hope.
On one of these events, this past Saturday, I hiked with my family in the beautiful ravine of Letchworth Park in Western New York. I was moved by the beauty of the gorge, even as I feared the treacherous descent from cliff edge to the river below. This sense of treacherousness was heightened when I learned that a police officer we saw on the hiking trail to the lower falls had just returned from saving a man's life-- a man who he told the group of hikers ahead of us was a vet, who would have ended his own life by jumping from a cliff that protruded into the water. As I stood there on the edge, looking out over the river, I contemplated the despair of one unable to re-enter this world- and I whispered the words of the Navajo prayer, spoken in ceremony for those returning from war- May you walk in beauty- praying that the broken man might find a way to return to balance and harmony with life.
When I left the park, I noticed in my rearview mirror the same police officer with his face in his hands. These are times of chasmic weeping- not of petty personal wounds, but of a deeper ache for a world in despair. At home, in the sanctuary of my meditation, I have made it a daily practice to hold the names of the fallen in stones, collected from walks I have taken in the surrounding woods and from the distant ocean shores. I hold each stone in remembrance of lives lost, in prayerful intention, and in hope for healing. (This was a practice that evolved after attending a War Healing Circle at my congregation this past May... during which we held stones, while the names of those soldiers who had died since the last gathering were read aloud.)
Today I hold these stones not only for the victims of war, but for all the dear ones I am holding, and for the ones forgotten and unseen. Beneath the clear blue New York skies, it is hard to imagine the dark maelstrom that now pelts the Gulf Coast in Hurricane Isaac's wake. Seven years ago, I watched on tv screens as Hurricane Katrina bore down on New Orleans, ripping through the levees. Stuck in bed with the flu then, I watched continuously, as the flood waters rose and then cleared- leaving only the bodies of the dead. I watched news flashes of floods receding to reveal a world full of people who had been overlooked, forgotten, unseen- and I felt the helpless pull to do something- anything- to heal our human need.
But healing is not something we learn to do over night; it has probably taken me at least seven years to learn how to heal myself, and I am only beginning to learn how to heal others. Last night I gathered in a room with several people in another city that, like New Orleans, is full of too many people that too many others never knew- or cared- existed. The people gathered there in Newburgh spoke of their visions for the Hope Center- a place of possibility, community, and spiritual center for a city in crisis.
As each one spoke, I listened intently, and I was moved by a familiar love-- a love that has compelled me lately to extend my hands, with an energy stronger than gravity, to other hands that greet me. A love that has poured out in tears, in stones, and in a longing to fly. And a love that has moved me to face the darkness of my own resistant shadow side.
These experiences- of light and dark, of love and shadow- are all a part of the journey. I have begun reading the first book I chose from my spiritual director training syllabus: Entering the Castle by Caroline Myss. This is a book about mysticism which- to de-mystify- is really about living the words of my favorite prayer of St. Francis: Make me an instrument of your peace...It is about doing the inner work of self-examination, prayer, and contemplation to become a channel for grace. I am reminded that I must do this shadow work to enter the wholeness of my soul; I am reminded that I must dive within if I am to help restore what is broken in this world. Entering the Castle explores the work of St. Teresa of Avila- including her ascent through the castle of her soul into elevated states of spiritual consciousness to become intimate with the divine. Hmmm...falling in love, becoming intimate... It seems that this is the work of getting closer, and I am reminded of the words of my spiritual director when we first met- you know, this call to be a spiritual director, it is really a call to be closer to God.
And "getting closer" is what we do when we stand in a circle at the end of our meeting, joined together hand in hand. My spiritual director holds my right hand, and he leads us in prayer- for our community, and for this broken city. My left hand is joined to the hand of a man who has transformed his life- from prison to freedom and grace; who is an integral part of this community, and whose hand in mine is a stone of hope. When we have prayed and let go, we turn in a hug of friendship.
I know then that I am not here to solve the city's problems, but to be there- bound in relationship- to the ones I join my hands with. As a people of this world we are falling fast, over the edge of cliffs. But as we reach out our hands to one another we are held back from the edge by beauty, and we are saved by the grace of each other. And we know, as we walk this journey, that we are not alone. These hands we hold are stones of hope, and they are stones of healing. There is a love that wraps itself around us, lifts us, gives us wings to fly, and will not- ever- let us go.
This feeling of rising is almost like falling in love. My heart yearns to dissolve into something larger than myself. But like sweet infatuation, I am also disoriented- running up against spiritual paradox. Before me the chasm opens to reveal not only light, but darkness, and I longingly seek the eyes of the beloved to find my way home.
~
I write of this spiritual paradox now, in these strangely mystical words, because there are too many things that happen daily which leave me breathless and disoriented- sometimes with awe and hope, sometimes with fear and despair, and most often with a profound sense of both. In the end, when all is said and done, and the events of the day have dissolved into deeper meaning, I am left holding in my hand only a stone of hope.
On one of these events, this past Saturday, I hiked with my family in the beautiful ravine of Letchworth Park in Western New York. I was moved by the beauty of the gorge, even as I feared the treacherous descent from cliff edge to the river below. This sense of treacherousness was heightened when I learned that a police officer we saw on the hiking trail to the lower falls had just returned from saving a man's life-- a man who he told the group of hikers ahead of us was a vet, who would have ended his own life by jumping from a cliff that protruded into the water. As I stood there on the edge, looking out over the river, I contemplated the despair of one unable to re-enter this world- and I whispered the words of the Navajo prayer, spoken in ceremony for those returning from war- May you walk in beauty- praying that the broken man might find a way to return to balance and harmony with life.
When I left the park, I noticed in my rearview mirror the same police officer with his face in his hands. These are times of chasmic weeping- not of petty personal wounds, but of a deeper ache for a world in despair. At home, in the sanctuary of my meditation, I have made it a daily practice to hold the names of the fallen in stones, collected from walks I have taken in the surrounding woods and from the distant ocean shores. I hold each stone in remembrance of lives lost, in prayerful intention, and in hope for healing. (This was a practice that evolved after attending a War Healing Circle at my congregation this past May... during which we held stones, while the names of those soldiers who had died since the last gathering were read aloud.)Today I hold these stones not only for the victims of war, but for all the dear ones I am holding, and for the ones forgotten and unseen. Beneath the clear blue New York skies, it is hard to imagine the dark maelstrom that now pelts the Gulf Coast in Hurricane Isaac's wake. Seven years ago, I watched on tv screens as Hurricane Katrina bore down on New Orleans, ripping through the levees. Stuck in bed with the flu then, I watched continuously, as the flood waters rose and then cleared- leaving only the bodies of the dead. I watched news flashes of floods receding to reveal a world full of people who had been overlooked, forgotten, unseen- and I felt the helpless pull to do something- anything- to heal our human need.
But healing is not something we learn to do over night; it has probably taken me at least seven years to learn how to heal myself, and I am only beginning to learn how to heal others. Last night I gathered in a room with several people in another city that, like New Orleans, is full of too many people that too many others never knew- or cared- existed. The people gathered there in Newburgh spoke of their visions for the Hope Center- a place of possibility, community, and spiritual center for a city in crisis.
As each one spoke, I listened intently, and I was moved by a familiar love-- a love that has compelled me lately to extend my hands, with an energy stronger than gravity, to other hands that greet me. A love that has poured out in tears, in stones, and in a longing to fly. And a love that has moved me to face the darkness of my own resistant shadow side.
These experiences- of light and dark, of love and shadow- are all a part of the journey. I have begun reading the first book I chose from my spiritual director training syllabus: Entering the Castle by Caroline Myss. This is a book about mysticism which- to de-mystify- is really about living the words of my favorite prayer of St. Francis: Make me an instrument of your peace...It is about doing the inner work of self-examination, prayer, and contemplation to become a channel for grace. I am reminded that I must do this shadow work to enter the wholeness of my soul; I am reminded that I must dive within if I am to help restore what is broken in this world. Entering the Castle explores the work of St. Teresa of Avila- including her ascent through the castle of her soul into elevated states of spiritual consciousness to become intimate with the divine. Hmmm...falling in love, becoming intimate... It seems that this is the work of getting closer, and I am reminded of the words of my spiritual director when we first met- you know, this call to be a spiritual director, it is really a call to be closer to God.
And "getting closer" is what we do when we stand in a circle at the end of our meeting, joined together hand in hand. My spiritual director holds my right hand, and he leads us in prayer- for our community, and for this broken city. My left hand is joined to the hand of a man who has transformed his life- from prison to freedom and grace; who is an integral part of this community, and whose hand in mine is a stone of hope. When we have prayed and let go, we turn in a hug of friendship.
I know then that I am not here to solve the city's problems, but to be there- bound in relationship- to the ones I join my hands with. As a people of this world we are falling fast, over the edge of cliffs. But as we reach out our hands to one another we are held back from the edge by beauty, and we are saved by the grace of each other. And we know, as we walk this journey, that we are not alone. These hands we hold are stones of hope, and they are stones of healing. There is a love that wraps itself around us, lifts us, gives us wings to fly, and will not- ever- let us go.
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