Month: June 2020

This Practice comes from Fr Richard Rohr’s Daily Meditation Blog.

Enjoy!

Practice: Go Where the Big Bang Leads You

Dr. Barbara Holmes offers us a reminder that while cosmology might be a new area of exploration for some of us, scientific questions and cosmological views of the world have always been valued by ancient and contemporary indigenous communities:

“Indigenous societies include science and theology and all other aspects of their culture as a part of their ordinary discourse, for the sciences have never been alienated from daily life. Ancient cosmologies assure us that reality is relational and will not be discovered through a microscope or an intricate mathematical formula; instead, it may be encoded in each event of creation.” [1]

The following practice by Walter Truett Anderson invites us to have a taste of such an integrated perspective. I hope you will take this playful thought experiment seriously the next time you are reading a book, washing the dishes, or brushing your teeth!

Let us assume, for the purposes of this thought experiment, that you are in general agreement with the big bang theory of the origins of the universe and contemporary thinking about its evolution—the explosion out of nothing; the conversion of gases to matter; the formation of stars and planets; the appearance of life on earth, and then of consciousness, and then of symbol-using, self-reflective human consciousness. If you do see things this way, and if you don’t believe yourself to be somehow separate from this series of events, you might try sometime—say, when you are brushing your teeth in the morning—contemplating the eminently rational proposition that what you are doing and seeing is an integral part of those processes: The universe is not only going about its mysterious business with quarks and black holes and supernovae; it is also brushing its (your) teeth.

Try it and see where it leads you. Where it leads me is into a sense of wonder, a new discovery of being akin to some of the fresh experiences so commonly recorded in the various enlightenment texts.

“What miracle is this!” goes a Zen saying. “I draw water and I carry wood.”

What miracle is this: Something emerges out of nothing and, fourteen billion years later, takes the form of words being written on a computer screen. Molecules spinning about the galaxy settle into the more or less stable forms of pine trees outside my window, an expanse of blue water, the Golden Gate Bridge. Others take the form of a woman in a gray pith helmet delivering the mail. What miracle is this: The debris settled out of long-dead stars takes the form of you reading a book.

[1] Barbara A. Holmes, Race and the Cosmos: An Invitation to View the World Differently, 2nd ed. (CAC Publishing: 2020), 120.

Walter Truett Anderson, The Next Enlightenment: Integrating East and West in a New Vision of Human Evolution (St. Martin’s Press: 2003), 219–220.

Image Credit: Una “rete” di rami all’Arte Sella (Wood and Art in the Forest of Italy) (detail), 2008, Arte Sella, Trento, Italy.

‘Say Thank You Say I’m Sorry’

The Pulitzer Prize-winning poet Jericho Brown writes for the Book Review about life during the pandemic.

I don’t know whose side you’re on,
but I am here for the people who work in grocery stores that glow in the morning
and close down for deep cleaning at night
right up the street and in cities I mispronounce,
in towns too tiny for my big black
car to quit, and in every wide corner
of Kansas where going to school means
at least one field trip to a slaughterhouse.

I want so little: another leather bound
book, a gimlet with a lavender gin, bread
so good when I taste it I can tell you
how it’s made.

I’d like us to rethink what it is to be a nation.
I’m in a mood about America today.
I have PTSD about the Lord.
God save the people who work in grocery stores.
They know a bit of glamour is a lot of glamour.
They know how much it costs for the eldest of us to eat.

Save my loves and not my sentences.
Before I see them, I draw a mole near my left dimple,
add flair to the smile they can’t see behind my mask.
I grin or lie or maybe I wear the mouth of a beast.
I eat wild animals while some of us grow up knowing what gnocchi is.
The people who work at the grocery don’t care.
They say, Thank you.
They say, Sorry,
We don’t sell motor oil anymore with a grief so thick
You could touch it.
Go on.
Touch it.
It is early.
It is late.
They have washed their hands.
They have washed their hands for you.
And they take the bus home.

As any of us who treasure “forest bathing” as the Japanese call it and feel most at home in among the trees can relate – there is a deep sense of community and cooperation. This short video illustrates the newest science around how and why the forest is in constant dialogue, and reminds us – there is only one forest. The only being…

FATHER EARTH  

Clarissa Pinkola Estes


There is a two-million year old man
No one knows.
They cut into his rivers
Peeled wide pieces of hide
From his legs
Left scorch marks
On his buttocks.
He did not cry out.
No matter what they did, he held firm.
Now he raises his stabbed hands
and whispers that we can heal him yet.
We begin the bandages,
The rolls of gauze,
The unguents, the gut,
The needle, the grafts.
We slowly, carefully turn his body
Face up,
And under him,
His lifelong lover, the old woman,
Is perfect and unmarked
He has laid upon
His two-million year old woman
All this time, protecting her
With his old back, his old scarred back.
And the soil beneath her
Is black with her tears.

Hello dear friends,
The last poem I posted from myself was at the end of my silent meditation retreat in a space where I knew I was connected to the forest and to everything deep in my heart.

But then I opened up the news again…

During my time in silence and isolation from the world, everything had changed… again. Another unarmed black man had been murdered by police and it seemed to have finally cracked open a deep wound in our society. The world had changed, my culture was changing (I hoped), I changed.

The poem changed.

Here is the new version:

What? I Am!
© Wakil David Matthews – May, 2020

---

I am

I am singing a robin song.

A nuthatch song

A raven song

I am singing the dirge

Of the dying bees wasting in chemical soup
Of the suffering salmon dying in churning blades
Of the mourning Orca mother holding her dead baby.

I am reaching my roots deep into the Earth.

Intertwining

Connecting
Feeling
Hearing
The critters
the mycelium
the dirt

I am pulling the sap up through my bark.

I am reaching toward the golden sun.

I am feeling the pain

Of forests raging in black fire
Of the decimated rotting stumps remembering the rain forest
Of hemlocks and pine and elm consumed by disease

I am reflecting green light in a million different hues.

From Leaf
from Moss
From fern
From needle
From salal

I am swallowing poisonous pesticides
I am soil depleted and dead from mono-culture greed.

I am feeling the breeze on my bare skin.

I’m feeling the cold in my toes.

I am feeling the fear
the clenching of my bowels
the closing of my throat
the stiffening lungs and spiking fever.

I am the young black boy looking into the death eye
Of the white policeman’s revolver

I am the white policeman trembling inside
With a fear he cannot name.

We can’t breathe
but still we breathe.

I am singing a creek song.

I am singing a breeze song.

I am emerging from the sweat lodge
Remembering indigenous ancestors
Mourning for all that has been destroyed.

I am singing a song of protest
Of outrage
Of disgust
Of sorrow
Of hope
Of change.

I am the breeze.

I am the song.

I am afraid

I am delight.

I am despair.

I am hopeful.

I am heartbroken.

I am heart.

Only heart.

I am.

---

This came to me from a friend Cece Briggs, who I was honored and privileged to have as a teacher when I finished my Bachelors in Spirituality at Antioch University. I share it with her permission:

Death Like No Other

This is a death like no other
red-barbed, lurking—invisible.
And this is a death like any other
disfiguring, liminal, pregnant somehow.

Children are afraid.
Admit that you are afraid.

Parking lots at the grocery stores
littered with masked phantoms.
I saw a woman clutching a bottle of wine to her breast
as her face trembled and twitched
in the check out isle.

Reality of the front lines
concealed from many—
disinformation filtered
through a fun house mirror

What happens when a cloud like this descends
and proceeds to shut down a world?

Earth-bound death
it is a descent—
into the mysteries of the Self
Leviathan of re-evaluation lodged on the precipice
of some unforeseen awakening.

Lead us into the dark
with our wounded shopping carts
our surgical gloves
our hand sanitizer.
Cerebus will detect us either way—
will split the landscape of Vaseline
and yellowing strip mall
with a snap of his jaw.

Lead us like the ones before us
into the realm of the night sea journey—
into the nadir
into the longing chasm of the abyss.

And let the candle held by Osiris
guide us en masse
through the waters of our great undoing—
through the initiations of light bearing.

Great trauma in any kind of dying—
always feels real this stripping down
this crucifixion
this flayed skin hanging on a peg—
this return to prima materia.

And the return
when what has been salvaged remains—
let it be re-membered
let it be known.

Let it strive to split the fabric that blankets the earth
Let it drive a spear through the heart of Cyclopean progress
Let it be wide enough
Let it be sharp enough
that we might hear the cries of the wild once again.

Guide us to the place where we may hear whale song
where we can smooth the rough hands of our ancestors once again.
Slow us down enough to mimic the movements of the ancient ones—
thick dinosaur legs rooted
heavy and sure.

This is a death like no other
red-barbed, lurking—invisible.
And this is a death like any other
disfiguring, liminal, pregnant somehow.

~ Cece W. Briggs, PhD