Welcome my dear friends to this month’s Mysticism and Spirituality Circle Blog where we step into the technological present and begin using this blogging tool.
I hope you find it enlightening and useful, and that you take advantage of the ability to reply with your comments and additions so this becomes a truly collaborative community.
This month, after some difficult times, I am concentrating on the many ways different communities, poets, and writers have given us to process and move through our pain, and to revel in joy. It is hugely important to find ways to hold our pain and the suffering of the planet, yet at the same time, part of processing and self-care is knowing when and how to release that sorrow and despair and find rest and replenishment in the living world.
Those of us living in the urban world may have to pay closer attention, or wander a little further to find that connection with the wild. But it is very much there – whether in that dandelion pushing up through the concrete, or in the shadow of the coyote escaping into the ditch. I recently found my way to a small, neighborhood park where 600 year old fir trees still tower in stately connection to the earth and sky. And I am blessed by a nearby marshland that I visit regularly.
I begin with a poem from my most recent walk through that marsh.
Edmonds Marsh on a Chill Foggy Morning
This may be
what death looks like.
Up close, the fires
of fall colors
Terrifying, beautiful,
alluring.
Further back, a black and white
still life.
An old photo smudged
at the edges,
From being held
by too many curious fingers.
Further still, dissolved
into gray
Sparkling, roiling,
mysterious.
And from out of that
gray mystery mist
The shade,
then the dark form
Then the regal,
stately presence
Of the heron.
Bringing a message:
“It is the same.”
~ Wakil David Matthews ~ 10/2018
We must remember beauty wherever and whenever we can. Often our best guides to this are those indigenous cultures from whom we can learn so much if we only pay attention. In this practice from Fr. Richard Rohr’s blog we learn of several such experiences.
Practice: Communal Contemplation
Black or Africana church brings communal and embodied contemplative practice to Western Christianity. Barbara Holmes stretches the narrow Eurocentric definition of contemplation beyond solitude and silence:
The African American church developed rituals and practices that nurtured and encouraged congregational encounters with the mysteries of God. Always, the focus was on piercing the veil between secular and spiritual realms through shared experiences. . .
In Africana traditions, the desert mothers and fathers offer one model of contemplative practice; the songs of Alabama chain gangs at the turn of the century, the rhythmic chants amid cotton rows in Mississippi during slavery, and the murmured hymns of domestic workers offer yet another. Those of us who grew up and worshipped in historically black church congregations wonder how a religious tradition that values bodily spirit possessions and performative vocal entreaties to a personal God can be considered contemplative.
The answer is hidden in plain view and is ensconced in historical presumptions about the boundaries and practices of contemplative worship. If the model for contemplation is Eurocentric, then the religious experiences of indigenous people and their progeny will never fit the mold. But if contemplation is an accessible and vibrant response to life and to a God who unleashes life toward its most diverse potentials [and if all are created in God’s image], then practices that turn the human spirit inward may or may not be solitary or silent. Instead, contemplation becomes an attentiveness of spirit that shifts the seeker from an ordinary reality to the basileia of God. . . .
I have not always been able to predict when these abiding times would arise. The places differ significantly and are only connected by my presence in the midst of faithful and expectant people. I have found myself in the midst of a transformative contemplative moment while worshiping with the Turkana in northern Kenya, watching the procession of clergy and locals and hearing the sounds of drums and hymns. Perhaps it was the heat or incongruity of regal African men in Scottish liturgical garb in the middle of the desert that created the sense of spiritual displacement; perhaps not.
I experienced similar moments on a hilltop in Sonora, Nogales, Mexico, as we sojourned with a family in their cardboard and corrugated tin home. Time seemed to stand still as we ate dinner together in the darkened room. Outside, another “temporary” refuge caught fire and burned. There was no way to save the dwelling, so we stood and silently prayed. Similar moments occurred while singing “Amazing Grace” in a Japanese Christian church in Onjuku and while giving birth to my sons surrounded by strangers and loved ones. The times and places are less important than the shared experiences of holy abiding.
To experience a taste of communal and vocal contemplative practice, listen to this moving song “Oh, Jesus.” Join your own voice—in moan and ecstatic cry—with this choir from Trinity United Church of Christ: [1]
http://email.cac.org/t/d-l-bulxa-kuhrlhdkl-h/
[1] “Oh, Jesus,” Sanctuary Choir, Trinity United Church of Christ, Chicago, Illinois.
Barbara A. Holmes, Joy Unspeakable: Contemplative Practices of the Black Church, second edition (Fortress Press: 2017), xxxiii, 18-19.
Psalm 121
I look deep into my heart,
to the core where wisdom arises.
Wisdom comes from the Unnamable
and unifies heaven and earth.
The Unnamable is always with you,
shining from the depths of your heart.
His peace will keep you untroubled
even in the greatest pain.
When you find him present within you,
you find truth at every moment.
He will guard you
he will guide your feet on his path.
He will temper your youth with patience;
he will crown your old age with fulfillment.
And dying, you will leave your body
as effortlessly as a sigh.
(A Book of Psalms, trans. and adapted by Stephen Mitchell)
A SMALL PORCH IN THE WOODS
To care for what we know requires
care for what we don’t, the world’s lives
dark in the soil, dark in the dark.
Forbearance is the first care we give
to what we do not know. We live
by lives we don’t intend, lives
that exceed our thoughts and needs, outlast
our designs, staying by passing through,
surviving again and again the risky passages
from ice to warmth, dark to light.
Rightness of scale is our second care:
the willingness to think and work
within the limits of our competence
to do no permanent wrong to anything
of permanent worth to the earth’s life,
known or unknown, now or ever, never
destroying by knowledge, unknowingly,
what we do not know, so that the world
in its mystery, the known unknown world,
will live and thrive while we live.
~ Wendell Berry ~
(A Small Porch – Sabbath Poems 2014-2015)
Tiny Gods
Some gods say, the tiny ones
“I am not here in your vibrant, moist lips
That need to beach themselves upon
the golden shore of a
Naked body.”
Some gods say, “I am not
the sacred yearning in the unrequited soul;
I am not the blushing cheek
Of every star and Planet–
I am not the applauding Chef
Of those precious sections that can distill
The whole mind into a perfect wincing jewel, if only
For a moment
Nor do I reside in every pile of sweet warm dung
Born of earth’s
Gratuity.”
Some gods say, the ones we need to hang,
“your mouth is not designed to know His,
Love was not born to consume
the luminous
realms.”
Dear ones,
Beware of the tiny gods frightened men
Create
To bring an anesthetic relief
To their sad
Days.
~ Hafiz ~
(The Gift – versions of Hafiz by Daniel Ladinsky)
One of the most important ways to remember where we are and to reconnect and refresh is to breathe (as my dear Sufi teacher never fails to remind me!
Practice: YHWH Prayer
You shall not take the name of God in vain. —Exodus 20:7
Many Christians think the second commandment is a prohibition against cussing. But I believe the real meaning of speaking the name of God “in vain” is to speak God’s name casually or trivially, with a false presumption of understanding the Mystery—as if we knew what we were talking about!
Many Jewish people concluded that the name of God should not be spoken at all. The Sacred Tetragrammaton, YHWH, was not even to be pronounced with the lips! In fact, vocalizing the four consonants does not involve closing the mouth. A rabbi taught me that God’s name was not pronounceable but only breathable: YH on the captured in-breath, and WH on the offered out-breath!
We come from a very ancient, human-based, natural, biological, universally experienced understanding of God. God’s eternal mystery cannot be captured or controlled, but only received and shared as freely as the breath itself—the thing we have done since the moment we were born and will one day cease to do in this body. God is as available and accessible as our breath itself. Jesus breathes the Spirit into us as the very air of life (see John 20:22)! Our job is simply to both receive and give this life-breath. We cannot only inhale, and we cannot only exhale. We must breathe in and out, accept and let go.
Take several minutes to pause and breathe mindfully, surrendering to the mystery of wordless air, the sustainer of life. Part your lips; relax jaw and tongue. Hear the air flow in and out of your body:
Inhale: yh
Exhale: wh
Let your breathing in and out, for the rest of your life, be your prayer to—and from—such a living and utterly shared God. You will not need to prove it to anybody else, nor can you. Just keep breathing with full consciousness and without resistance, and you will know what you need to know.
Adapted from Richard Rohr, Things Hidden: Scripture as Spirituality (Franciscan Media: 2008), 129-131.
Can You Imagine?
For example, what the trees do
not only in lightening storms
or the watery dark of a summer’s night
or under the white nets of winter
but now, and now, and now – whenever
we’re not looking. Surely you can’t imagine
they don’t dance, from the root up, wishing
to travel a little, not cramped so much as wanting
a better view, or more sun, or just as avidly
more shade – surely you can’t imagine they just
stand there loving every
minute of it, the birds or the emptiness, the dark rings
of the years slowly and without a sound
thickening, and nothing different unless the wind,
and then only in its own mood, comes
to visit, surely you can’t imagine
patience, and happiness, like that.
~ Mary Oliver ~
(Long Life)
Imaginings Beneath an Elderly Wild Cherry Tree
(This was written a week before seeing the poem above by Mary Oliver – they go together nicely)
Imagine how many children you’ve held
in your strong, rough, mossy arms
The squeals of delight,
exuberance, and fear.
Imagine the thumping
into the soft ground
or the quick grasp of a
friend’s or parent’s hand.
Imagine the years
of quiet evenings,
the sun and rain washing
your leaves and branches.
Imagine the turning
of the seasons,
leaves blazing orange
and tumbling to the welcoming earth.
Imagine all the endings
and beginnings,
children grown and sad
standing amidst your thick arms.
Imagine them (me) remembering
and wishing for a return
to those days when they (I)
rode in your magic story.
I imagine.
~ Wakil David Matthews ~ 9/2018
We end this month’s sharing with the following wonderful meditative practice of Tonglen from Tibetan Buddhist teacher Pema Chodron.
Please respond with your thoughts, poetry, readings, or media in the comments section. Thank you for all you are and all you do.
Practice: Tonglen
A wonderful meditative practice from Tibetan Buddhist teacher Pema Chödrön.
Tonglen is . . . the most effective tool for developing courage and arousing our sense of oneness with others. . . .
There are various ways that tonglen is taught, but the essence of it is breathing in that which is unpleasant and unwanted and breathing out—sending out—that which is pleasing, relieving, enjoyable. In other words, we breathe in the things we usually try to avoid, such as our sadness and anger [and suffering], and we send out the things we usually cling to, such as our happiness and good health. We breathe in pain and send out pleasure. We breathe in disgrace and send out good reputation. We breathe in loss and send out gain. This is an exceedingly counterhabitual practice. It helps us overcome our fear of suffering and tap into the compassion that’s inherent in us all.
The word tonglen is Tibetan for “sending and receiving.” It refers to our willingness to take on the pain of others we know are hurting and extend to them whatever we feel will ease their pain, whatever will enable them to stay present with the sorrows and losses and disappointments of life.
Practicing tonglen awakens our natural empathy, our innate ability to put ourselves in others’ shoes. Caring about people when they’re scared or sad or angry or arrogant can be a challenge; it confronts us with our own pain and fear, with the places where we’re stuck. But if we can stay with those unwanted feelings, we can use them as stepping-stones to understanding the pain and fear of others. Tonglen allows us to acknowledge where we are in the moment and, at the same time, cultivate a sense of kinship with others. When painful feelings arise, we breathe them in, opening to our own suffering and the suffering of everyone else who is feeling the same way. Then we send relief to us all. . . .
Tonglen isn’t just a practice to do on the meditation cushion. It’s particularly useful right in the midst of our life, wherever we are as we go about the day. . . .
Tonglen reverses the usual logic of avoiding suffering and seeking pleasure. To the degree that we can open to our own pain, we can open to the pain of others. To the degree that we can stay present with our own pain, we can hang in with someone who’s provoking us. We come to see pain as something that can transform us, not as something to escape at any cost. As we continue to practice tonglen, our compassion is bound to grow. We’ll find ourselves increasingly more able to be there for others, even in what used to seem like impossible situations.
Pema Chödrön, Living Beautifully with Uncertainty and Change (Shambhala: 2013), 80-81, 82, 84.
