Plaiting palm

The reed folded sweetly around my fingers, as sweetly as the voice of Sister Mary Jude as she said “That’s right, Sister. That’s the way. You’ve got it.”

She was teaching me how to plait palm, a traditional skill to be handed on to me, and to others. I was startled at the suppleness of the palm once the hard edge had been peeled and discarded and the slender reed broken nearly in half. Now it was to be threaded and woven into something entirely new. In my uncertain hands, its disposition was relaxed, its mood pliable. I folded, tucked, and wrapped, folded, tucked and wrapped, my fingers slowly acclimating themselves to the palm, even as the palm adjusted itself to my fingers.

“You have to keep it moist and fresh,” she said. “If you let it dry out, it will break.”

We were plaiting palm for tomorrow’s Passion Sunday procession – decorative palm for the cross, the celebrant, and our prioress. We’ve been making other preparations, too. Sister Mary Adrian and Sister Kathleen arranged fans of palm for the altar. Sister Therese tied ribbons. Sister Kathleen Christa prepared for Vigil. The incense is ready. The wood of the processional cross has been freshly oiled. Musicians and cantors have rehearsed. Sacristans are prepared. And meanwhile, I keep thinking about the pliant yielding of the palm.

I keep thinking, too, about those who, over 2000 years ago, made preparations for Jesus’ entrance into Jerusalem. Those who untied the donkey, spread their cloaks, cut down branches, cried “Hosanna…” And I think about our Lord Jesus as he entered the city.

“Pull it tightly. And you’ve got to hold it firmly. Hold it tight and don’t let go.”

I folded, tucked, and wrapped, folded, tucked, and wrapped, holding tightly and not letting go, committed to doing my bit of preparation to commemorate Jesus' journey. It was heart preparation, too, praying that my heart could be as supple as fresh palm, hard edges peeled and discarded, pliant in the hands of God, yet as firm as Jesus as he entered Jerusalem, holding tightly to his destiny, eyes set firmly on the cross - both pliantly yielding, and not letting go.

Symphony

Last night, I did something I rarely take the time to do. I sat in my room upstairs in Joseph Hall and listened to a CD in its entirety. The CD I chose, somewhat at random, was Beethoven’s Symphony No. 9.

I started out half listening and half reading an article. The article, though, was soon abandoned, and I leaned back in my rocker and simply listened as movement followed movement and tempos shifted and keys changed and fanfares were sounded and answered and themes emerged and were repeated in variation after variation, all leading at last to that glorious fourth movement that we know as the Ode to Joy.

Listening to the entire work was not only thoroughly pleasurable and deeply moving, it was an instructive reminder about attending to the whole, about remembering that what might be present for a moment – a dissonant chord, a contrapuntal rhythm, a musical phrase without a response – is not all that there is. The opus keeps moving, the dissonance resolves, the cello is answered by the violin, a motif is developed and repeated in deepening variations.

If we listen to only a single movement of a symphony, it’s easy to forget that it is part of a larger work. Likewise, a single period or event in our lives, when seen in isolation, can cause us to lose perspective on the whole. A dissonant chord, a single unharmonious note, a sudden change in tempo…any or all of these can cause us to inwardly grimace at the discordant sound, not understanding, appreciating, or properly contextualizing the dissonant note or unexpected chord.

Enduring such a time requires trust, perspective, patience, and hope: trust in the composer to lead us beyond the dissonance, perspective that is able to envision the whole beyond the part, and patience to wait in hope. For me, last night, resting from the work of the day, patience involved simply taking the time to listen to an entire symphonic work. In life, though, we are sometimes called to sustained periods of dissonance. Significant trust and perspective are required to persevere in patient hope.

The word ‘symphony’ means ‘concordance of sound.’ From the listener's perspective, and speaking spiritually, we could also think of this as ‘concordance of attention.' We are called to listen and attend to the various movements, motifs, and rhythms of our lives with trust, perspective, and patience rooted in hope, knowing that movement will follow movement, the tempo will shift, the key will change, the cello's call will be answered, and themes will develop and deepen, always leading us ultimately toward God, the source of all joy.


Postscript: Music in the monastery – There is plenty in our liturgy of course, but many of us keep CD players in our rooms. However we do keep the volume low in consideration of others and to maintain a good, quiet environment in the monastic living areas. I must admit that it was hard to refrain from cranking up the volume last night, especially during that 4th movement!

For more on music in the monastery, see the October 6, 2010 entry, Sister Anastasia's Orchestra, in the archives at left.

A color only God could create

The color that spread itself across the earth this afternoon was a color only God could create. It was a green charged with red, softened with yellow, laced with white, and warmed with the laziest afternoon breeze you could possibly imagine. Computer hues stand anemic and the printers ink merely pallid compared to the splendor and sublimity of these springtime shades, colors that only God could create.

This Sabbath afternoon has been suitably still, full of color, full of light, full of rest. The activities of the election of Prioress are behind us. The monastery is quiet. Community cars sit immobile in their assigned slots. It seems that no one at all is out and about. Around mid-afternoon, I wandered outside and sat for a while, watching the shades of springtime mix and match, drift and dance. Then I took a walk through the green, green pasture, through a color only God could create, resting in a peace only God can give.

Before this day is done – whether today, tomorrow, or whenever you read this – I hope that you, too, have a chance to pause, to let your eyes linger on this many-hued earth, resting in the peace that only God can give.


Postscript: Our Community completed our election of Prioress yesterday. Details can be found on our Community News page.

Making a mountain

Recently, I was asked to make a mountain. It was to be part of Sr. Marie's meeting room environment for her retreat entitled On the Holy Mountain. I’ve been asked to do some unusual things before, but never make a mountain. Where to begin?

First, there was a storage-room search for some mountain-colored fabrics, then a trip to the kitchen pantry with a cart. In the pantry I went shelf to shelf collecting tin cans of every size, empty jars, plastic containers, some variously-shaped food packages, and a bit of stainless steel. By stacking, leaning, propping, spreading, and draping this improbable collection of materials, I managed to create a credible mountain. Sr. Mary Adrian came along with some ideas about greenery and some extra fabric from her studio and turned the mountain into something even better than credible. A trip out back for a few rocks provided the final accent.

Looking at the fabric-draped mountain, you’d never know that the cloth hid a jumble of precariously stacked foodstuffs – everything from barbeque sauce to marmalade to chicken broth to a box of tea bags, all crowned with an upside down ice cream scoop holder. It was like a kitchen in camouflage, yet it gave shape to the fabric, changing a random assortment of mountain-colored cloths into a majestic, and defining, mantle.

For each of us, the vocation to which we are called is a kind of mantle, a figurative cloak draped across our lives, defining who we are. Yet no matter our vocation, it is the stuff of daily life – the “everything and the kitchen sink,” if you will – that both gives shape to our vocation, and forms the terrain upon which our vocation takes shape.

Whether vowed religious, spouse, or parent, our vocations are expressed within and amidst ordinary life. We make our lives from, and in turn are made by, the ‘stuff’ of life. Buying groceries, studying for school, mowing the lawn, growing vegetables, taking out the trash, comforting a child, bringing food to the sick, helping a neighbor, offering our gifts, laboring diligently at the work we have been given… This jumbled assortment of ordinary experiences propped against one another – sometimes precariously, sometimes improbably – forms the terrain we traverse as we climb the holy mountain in search of God.

We drape ourselves daily in the mantle of our calling, our vocation giving definition to our work, and our work, in turn, giving shape to our vocation. In faithfully living our call within the ordinary circumstances of our lives, we can help make far more than a credible mountain. Our lives can become bread for the world, a kitchen in camouflage, the terrain that helps others traverse the pilgrim path to God.


Postscript: This weekend, our monastic community will gather for election of Prioress. One Sister from among us will be called forth to assume the mantle of leadership. This call, too, bids one to be steeped in the ordinary events of life – care for the sick, attention to goods of the monastery, diligent labor – as she helps the community traverse the path to God. The call to leadership will shape her, even as she gives shape to the call. Our Community News web page contains information about the election process for those who are interested.

Good reason to pause

It’s not often that I linger in the stairwell, but the sights of springtime through today's open window gave me good reason to pause. I stood for a while, oblivious to anyone who might have wondered why I came to a standstill only halfway to my destination.

This is the time of year when the earth seems to cry out to be admired, to be gazed upon, to be sought after, to sing its own praises, to say “look at me,” even though the buds and blooms and bursting colors point not to themselves, but to the One who created their beauty.

Tonight’s reading from Sirach 24 during Vespers echoed the same idea…Wisdom singing her own praises.

"Wisdom sings her own praises...Like a cedar of Lebanon I am raised aloft…like a palm tree…like a rose bush…like a fair olive tree in the field…I bud forth delights like the vine, my blossoms become fruit fair and rich. Come to me, all you that yearn for me, and be filled with my fruits."

May the buds, blooms, and bursting colors of springtime turn our thoughts to the Creator of all beauty. And may we yearn for Wisdom, and linger at her feet, with the same delight with which we linger before the beauty of springtime. The Wisdom of God, "like cinnamon, fragrant balm, or precious myrrh," gives us good reason to pause.

Listening

One morning this week I took a short break and sat for a few minutes in a pleasant little back-porch cove. The porch is bordered on three sides by our soaring chapel, the three-story Ottilia Hall, and our high-roofed dining room. A series of covered walkways on the fourth side keeps the spot feeling somewhat removed and distant from the lawns that spread on the other side of the buildings. As I sat tucked away in this protected spot, imagine my surprise when a flotilla of cherry blossoms arrived on a gust of wind, settling on my lap, shoulders, and head, having been lofted, presumably, from the other side of three-story Ottilia. What a gift, and what an inward smile I had.

It was such a simple event, but it took sitting still for it to happen. Had I been strolling right along, the blossoms would have likely gusted right past my gaze, completely unnoticed, and I would have missed the gift.

We have in our Retreat Center office a small rocker that we simply call the Time-Out Chair. It’s a place to sit a spell, to take a brief break, to slow down for a moment, to pause… For “real” breaks, we leave the office, of course. But just the presence of the Time-Out Chair, and the occasional presence of someone sitting in it, helps remind us of the need to slow down, pause, rest, listen, and open ourselves to the voice of God.

Every day is a good day to sit silently with our Lord, but today, the Feast of the Annunciation, is an especially good day to take an extra ‘time-out’ to simply be in God’s presence, watching, waiting, attending, beholding… and listening for the voice of God to settle in our hearts like springtime blossoms on a gust of wind.

This past weekend, I turned on the TV searching for news from Japan. As I clicked through channels trying to find the news station, I passed game after game of basketball, including games on three sequential channels. In an odd juxtaposition, each of the three happened to have players shooting free throws at the moment I clicked through. Each player was at a slightly different point of release, making the overall effect like one slow-motion shot. The image of free throws lingered as I found the news channel and watched images of tragedy stream from Japan.

Although the sports we play are filled with uncertainty, they are not capricious. There is an orderly quality and an inherent regularity. There are rules. There are remedies. A foul is followed by a free throw. As I watched the news, I was thinking of those for whom there is no remedy, no one to blow a whistle and stop the action… those for whom the events of the past days have been anything but orderly, and nothing but capricious.

Collectively, the images from Japan are colossal in scale and mythic in scope. There are, of course, no adequate words - either to describe or respond, or even to pray. The words of the Psalms, though, have helped shape my prayer in recent days. These prayers of the ancient Hebrews express nearly every human emotion in their response to events that ranged from deep injustice to natural disaster to glorious triumph. The capriciousness of nature, and often of human behavior, is a recurring theme. A foul is not always followed by a free throw. Human remedies are not always forthcoming. And in the natural world, there is no whistle to blow to simply stop the action. Always, though, there is trust in God's presence, and ultimately God's justice, mercy, and power prevail over the forces of chaos.

During these days of destruction and chaos, our life at the monastery has been one of order and safety. We have read the papers, watched TV reports, checked on-line news, and prayed. But as our panes rattle with the restless wind and nearby banks overflow from soaking rain, we read, watch, and pray not as spectators, but as witnesses, as ones who stand with and for our suffering brothers and sisters. We also watch as ones who behold, who see the whole of life - with its warp and weft of joy and tragedy, order and chaos - through the window of eternity.

Here in Alabama on a Tuesday evening, I am reading of Wednesday's news in Japan. The geographical distance is great. The gap in experience is infinitely greater. But just as the prayers of the ancient Hebrews reach across continents and centuries to form the words of my own daily prayer, I will trust these same words to shape my prayers for all who suffer in the Land of the Rising Sun.

My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?
Why so far from my call for help,
from my cries of anguish?
My God, I call by day, but you do not answer,
By night, but I have not relief…

…Lord, do not stay far off;
My strength, come quickly to help me…From Ps 22