One Wild and Precious Life

Mortality

Ah, Venice!  It looks as though my sabbatical may not work out the way I hoped it would, the way I had planned it for 2008.  Sigh.  Oh, I could still go, I suppose; but I've been reading the application for Lilly Endowment grants for clergy sabbaticals, and I'm not sure I could pull something like that together in two weeks (the deadline is May 15).  The application is a major undertaking, and must be a collaboration between my parish and me.  My hope of living and doing research in Italy for 2-3 months will most certainly require some sort of financial assistance.  I may have to wait until 2009.  That doesn't completely preclude any travel at all to Italy in 2008, but it won't be quite the extended stay that I had hoped for.  So that hope is receding.  Not disappearing, definitely; but my time line just extended further into the future, which makes me sad.

Further into the future is something that makes me uncomfortable this year in particular.  This June I will be 55.  My father died when he was 55.  The women in my family are fairly long-lived: my maternal grandmother was 89 when she died, and my mother was 86 (for one day).  My brothers all got very nervous as they turned 55, thinking about Daddy's untimely, early death; but I thought I dodged that bullet, being a girl.  My brothers all outlived my father, though my youngest brother (12 years older than me, to whom I am closely genetically matched) died when he was 59.  Mortality.  Scary.  All the reading I did about "fear of death" seemed fairly academic and unlikely when I was reading it in my 20s; now it seems much less outlandish.  I only realize as I write this, that I've got the same bug that my brothers had.  No wonder I've been casting about desperately, trying to think of something fabulous to do for my 55th birthday; I'm halfway afraid I won't have another.  I have some chronic problems with my kidneys (not serious, my urologist insists), and my father and brother both died of renal cell carcinoma.

It's not that I'm truly afraid of death.  I have only very small, niggling doubts about the life to come. I do believe life is changed, but continues at our physical death.  I believe we get to be reunited with loved ones that we knew in this lifetime -- I will see my daughter again, and my parents, and my beloved brothers.  And I believe that our spiritual journey continues, regardless of what the Church has tried to tell us about the importance of getting right with God before we die.  I think we continue to grow and to learn and develop in the life to come.  I might even get to sit down and have that talk with Jesus that I hope for -- and I will be asking him for a few explanations (and vice-versa, I'm afraid)!  I'm not thrilled with the concept of dying -- who is?  I hope, as I think we all do, for something quick, easy, and painless, rather than some protracted, agonizing end.  My choices would be to go suddenly, "with my boots on," running, perhaps, or working in my garden, or to simply live a long, vital life and go to sleep one night, never to awaken in this world again.

So death itself -- no problem.  Dying -- some trepidation about pain and disability.  But mostly, it's the loss of this life I have now.  There's not enough time, I fear, to do all that I want to do.  I haven't yet written the book that I know lies within me somewhere.  I haven't learned to do the art that I see in my head, and in the books I devour.  I haven't lived in Italy.  I haven't found a lasting romantic love.  I haven't figured out what's wrong with me!  I'm just learning how to live.  I'm just learning the savory-sweet pleasure of being in the moment, of refusing to allow myself to be always running off to or obsessing about the next thing, or the previous thing, but rather to just sit in the sun and listen to the birds sing a song that pierces my heart.  I'm still perfecting my veggie garden.  I haven't yet lost the 70 pounds I'd like to shed.  I've not seen nearly enough springtimes.  And it scares me to death to think that I might not live long enough to really relish every single thing, every single dream.

A good thing about this realization of finitude, is that sometimes I really can be completely in the moment, and the delicious joy I feel is almost shameful.  It's a visceral, deep-down "YES!" that I've only previously felt during the very best sex -- something like when I gave that last strong push as I gave birth.  It's an amazing feeling, when it comes upon me -- more and more often.  Perhaps it's just that my yoga studies are kicking in -- "be here now."  But I think it's about knowing that these joyous present moments are limited now -- they could probably be easily counted up.

This post has taken a very strange turn for me.  I thought I would speak of being tired, feeling a bit harried and hassled, in need of a vacation.  I thought I would speak of spring's most delightful return (with much-welcome rain) to the Cumberland Plateau.  I thought I'd mention that tomorrow night I'll have more roast asparagus from my garden, and how it's time to get the tomatoes and cucumbers, peppers and basil in.  But things took another turn.  A road less taken, perhaps.

Celtic Spirituality....

....and my time away after Easter.  I told you I'd fill you in about the training intensive I attended.  The spiritual direction program I'm in, the Haden Institute, has its resident training weekends (Thursday-Sunday) at Kanuga Camp & Conference Center, which is a lovely spot in the Blue Ridge Mountains of western North Carolina.  The setting itself is enough to make anyone go all dreamy-eyed and mystical, and if you combine it with learning about my true passion, spirituality, it's enough to send me straight to the mountaintop.

The theme for the weekend was Celtic spirituality, with one presentation on Meister Eckhart, and the usual complement of case studies and dream work.  Our presenter was Marcus Losack, who did an excellent job of being organized and extremely well-informed, despite occasional glitches with his powerpoint presentations.  He traced the roots of Celtic Christianity in the pre-Christian pagan traditions of Ireland, as well as the Egyptian desert spirituality, as taught by John Cassian.  Very few people realize that there were thriving Christian communities in Ireland and Great Britain before the Romans sent Augustine of Canterbury to "convert the heathen" in Great Britain.  Those communities had already managed to incorporate pagan ways and celebrations into their church calendar, but also to establish the monastic structure and ascetical disciplines known to the Desert Fathers and Mothers (Abbas and Ammas).  This tradition is what set Celtic Christianity apart from Roman Christianity, and caused ancient and historic tensions that were in part eventually responsible for the separation of the English church from the Roman Catholic.  It was these early tensions and differences that were at least as much a factor as Henry VIII's wish for a divorce, that split the church at the time of the European Reformation.

Whew.  TMI (too much information), probably.  But the Celtic tradition has long been characterized by its comfortable coexistence with and cooptation of pagan tradition, its respect for local bishops, rather than the centralized power of the Bishop of Rome (otherwise known as the Pope), its reverence for nature, and its preference for small, monastic-style communities, rather than large parish structures.  Women were also counted among the leadership of the Celtic church, including Hilda of Whitby, who called an ecumenical church council at which it was decided to follow the Roman customs, rather than the traditional Celtic ones.  I thought I knew quite a bit about Celtic Christianity, but there was a lot of new information in these four days.

Part of this program has always been time spent in small groups (the same small group all the way through the 2 years), and this time our group bonded more and more closely.  The case study time proved especially rich, since we were open enough to give and receive honest feedback to one another (in the gentlest and most loving way), and I think we all learned a lot about ourselves and our own practice from exploring the practice of other group members.  We found ourselves wanting to spend time together at meals, as well -- because the conversations could now go deeper than chit-chat.  I can't imagine a time when these people aren't part of my life.

The graduation service this year was particularly touching, as we bid goodbye to people we had known over the last year.  We'll miss them, even as we rejoice in their achievement at finishing up.  There are two kinds of "completion" and "graduation" in this program:  one is for completing the six required intensive training weekends; the other is for completing the considerable required readings and papers.  Most often more people complete the residencies, with paperwork still due.  My small group vowed to one another to do our best to complete all assignments by our target graduation time of January, 2008.  I have 13 books and 5 papers to complete, but I'm determined to finish up with the class.  We'd be the first class on record to actually complete all our assignments by graduation time!

I left this weekend reluctantly.  It was busy, with lots of classroom sessions and schedule pressures.  Even the time we have from 1:30-3 each day was impinged upon by various required meetings.  But there's nothing like spending 4 days with people who share your passion.  It's hard to come back to the real world after an experience like that; retreat leaders call it "coming down off the mountaintop."  It was a long week back at work.

One of the things I did this past weekend was to lead Sunday morning's meditation.  To carry through our theme of Celtic spirituality and reverence for nature, we met on an outdoor porch for our daily meditation time (beginning at 7:30 am).  I was lucky to have a morning where the temperature was moderate, rather than cold, and where a mysterious mountain fog burned off to sun shining through clouds -- simply beautiful, with the geese calling, birds singing, and clouds glowing around the edges.  I led, as planned, a simple mindfulness meditation, beginning with this poem from Rumi:

The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you.
Don't go back to sleep.
You must ask for what you really want.
Don't go back to sleep.
People are going back and forth across the doorsill
where the two worlds touch.
The door is round and open.
Don't go back to sleep.

After 15 minutes of meditation, I closed with this poem by Denise Levertov:

A certain day became a presence to me;
there it was, confronting me--a sky, air, light:
a being. And before it started to descend
from the height of noon, it leaned over
and struck my shoulder as if with
the flat of a sword, granting me
honor and a task. The day's blow
rang out, metallic--or it was I, a bell awakened,
and what I heard was my whole self
saying and singing what it knew: I can.

It went well.  I was pleased.  Others were pleased just to have the time to sit still and be mindful of what was going on in the world around them.

Sunday afternoon I walked the labyrinth.  We are directed to take a 3-hour silent "Sabbath" period, including some journaling, walking the labyrinth, and any other things we wish to do.  I did some work in the art room, as well as the labyrinth.  I also wrote a simplified "pantoum," which we're taught during our sessions here.  I like to do art work, usually collage, but this time some clay work, of a heart rather battered and stretched.  We share the fruits of our sabbath time (if we choose), at the end of the silent period.  Here's a picture of the labyrinth at Kanuga:

 

The setting amid the trees is very conducive to meditation, and this week I felt as though I was walking right into the heart of God as I walked toward the center.

I've slept a lot this week.  I had a lot to do, and it was hard coming back from such a great experience.  One of the high points of Kanuga is unlimited crisp bacon at breakfast.  I'm glad I don't always have access to that, but I sure miss it when I leave!

Finally some restorative time at yoga class and in my veggie garden, as well as time with the two pups, have set me back on the path here at home.

Holy Week, 2007

Don't you love this image of the last supper?  Holy week at our parish is pretty intense.  We offer special services every day but Monday, with two on Good Friday (a 3-hour meditation period with readings, and the Solemn Liturgy for Good Friday).  Thursday night's service includes a lamb dinner (not a Seder - my particular bias is against Christians enacting a Jewish religious rite), as well as Communion around the dinner tables, and then a procession into the church for the stripping of the altar.  It's a great effort for all concerned, and as usual, this parish came through like champs.  I decided not to do the usual small bonfire for the new fire at the Great Vigil, but rather made a small flame with epsom salts and rubbing alcohol.  Nobody wanted to see a large blaze, after losing Ray to the brush fire last week.

The Bishop's visit and Confirmation on Palm Sunday went great, though it was a long service.  After an early morning rain, we decided at the last minute that the usual procession outside and around to the front of the church would work.  Tuesday was a service of Stations of the Cross.  Our parish has a very unusual cast-bronze set of stations, one of two like it in the US, and also found in one of the chapels in Canterbury Cathedral in England.  On Wednesday we do a service of Tenebrae, a quiet monastic service of psalms and prayers, with candles gradually extinguished until one large candle is carried from the church.  It is a service of light and shadow or darkness, very moving.  Thursday is the dinner, described above.  A very big production, entailing seven legs of lamb, all cooked with garlic and served with potato, green vegetable, and apple salad.

Good Friday is my favorite single day of the entire liturgical year.  The 3-hour vigil of prayer and meditation from 12-3 is a time to stop and be still and meditate on the great mystery of the crucifixion.  Now, I've always had trouble with the cross and crucifixion.  The doctrine of atonement is one that has always left me rather cold and confused.  I do not get the concept of a God that demands payment of a human/divine life in order to recompense for the sins of humankind.  It's not that I doubt our sinfulness (though that was a problem for me earlier in my adulthood) -- I know we humans fall so far short of God's dream for us.  But it's the needing to "pay the price" that bothered me, as I believe in a God of mercy and forgiveness.  But this year was different.  I used the same readings that I always do:  selections from Julian of Norwich, Denise Levertov, the Psalms, and James Weldon Johnson's "God's Trombones."  But somehow this year I was in awe of the true and cosmic mystery that we face when we look upon the cross.  I'm still not sure how it worked, exactly, but I do know that through this death, somehow God brought all of creation into a right and intimate relationship.  Truly mystery, and one I am willing to stand before in awe and adoration, rather than needing to "figure it all out."

The Great Vigil of Easter, held after sunset on Holy Saturday, went off without a hitch.  We begin the service with the lighting of the new fire and the new Paschal candle.  I sing the Exsultet, a rather lengthy chant -- this year I got it very nearly perfectly.  I've struggled for 4 years, and finally, by George, I think I've got it.  I used to be afraid to sing whenever I thought people could hear me -- but now I'm used to providing a strong lead voice for congregational singing, even if that lead voice isn't perfect!  Of course, real bread, baked by a (male) parishioner, and champagne in the chalice for Communion, helped with the festive ambiance.  Alleluia, Christ is risen!

Easter Sunday is definitely anticlimactic after the depth and meaningfulness of the Great Vigil.  And I'm invariably exhausted, after the Holy Week schedule.  But it was festive and properly celebratory.

One of the best parts of Holy Week for me was a visit from my very, very best friend for 26 years, from Buffalo!  She got rather more church than she was used to, but we had lots of time for good food and good conversation, and a real catching up with one another.  It was a great gift for me, and warmed my heart more than I can say.  I'll never forget the gift of her presence for a week.

More tomorrow, but I wanted you to know, even belatedly, about Holy Week in East Tennessee!

Long Lost

It has been far too long since I've spoken here.  But in my own defense, the day after my last post, a terrible thing happened:  A beloved friend and parishioner was burned to death in a brush fire.  This is a man who was 83 years old (even though he would never reveal his age), but anyone would have guessed he was in his mid '70s, max.  He was involved in nearly every aspect of our parish life, and his wife was (and still will be) involved in anything he might have missed.  Ray was a wonderful man, former military and then civilian commercial pilot, father of 7 lovely children, all adults with children of their own.  This second marriage was to the love of his life, a woman whom I consider a friend as well as an ally in the parish.  They were truly a golden couple, handsome, active, faithful, and deeply in love.  The week before Palm Sunday was a very sad one in our parish, as everyone knew and loved both Ray and his widow, Pat.  Everyone ached for her, being so suddenly bereft.  It was a great sadness for the whole congregation.

As the parish priest and pastor, I'll admit that I was as much in shock and grief as most of the parish.  I couldn't do anything but drive the 40 miles to Pat's house, over and over, and meet her huge family, and plan the funeral service.  Meanwhile, the rest of the parish brought food, and more food, and more.  My heart was broken, too, and having suddenly lost a daughter myself decades ago, the look of shock and grief on Pat's face was way too familiar to me.  The funeral, on Friday, March 30, was a grand one.  Others tell me that I got the service and the sermon "just right," and I can only say that it wrote itself -- straight from my heart and also from the Holy Spirit.  There was a huge reception, 42 family members, and standing room only in our medium-size church.  All our hearts were broken.

The following Sunday, April 1, was not only Palm Sunday, but the day of the annual Bishop's visit, as well.  Many of the special Lenten and Holy Week services from Ash Wednesday on are difficult for a priest, because they're only done once a year, and it's hard to remember how to do them correctly.  Palm Sunday is one of those, and a very big "production" in our parish, compared to a regular Sunday service.  We bless the palms outside the church (if it's not raining), process around the church to the big main double doors (only used on this particular day, or in case of a funeral with a casket), and then the whole service continues once we're back inside.  Our parish did not have confirmands for the Bishop, but another, smaller parish joined with us, and they had four new candidates.  In addition to the special blessing of the palms and procession, and the confirmation service, we also had the reading of the Passion (crucifixion) story.  This all took much time, and even more energy -- people (oh, okay, especially ME) were nervous because the Bishop was there.  Charles VonRosenberg is a very fine Bishop, a great pastor, and very good at setting his clergy at ease.  But we all want things to go just right when the Bishop is present.

The service was followed, as the Bishop's visit always is, by a grand reception -- the second in three days.  Our reception coordinator went way above and beyond the call of duty, and she was exhausted.  The ladies of the parish all pitched in, bringing finger foods and serving coffee and punch. They were exhausted, too.  And we still had Holy Week before us.  You'll have to tune in soon to hear about Holy Week and Easter -- and I'll also have to tell you about the fine training program in Celtic Spirituality that I attended this past weekend.  But that's all for another day.  I'll leave you with the knowledge that all our hearts are still broken with Ray's death.  It was a hard week, that week before Holy Week.