Way of the Monk - Week Four

Vows

A labyrinth runs through my heart,
Winding slowly this way and that through my inner monastery,
Pondering the sacred whisper of my soul,
Knowing that obedience scares me.

Winding slowly this way and that through my inner monastery,
Conversion finds the path through the walls,
Knowing that obedience scares me,
Afraid to be true to myself.

Conversion finds the path through the walls,
Pondering the sacred whisper of my soul,
Afraid to be true to myself,
A labyrinth runs through my heart. * o

Way of the Monk - Week Four

Way of the Monk - Week Three

Book of Hours

From Random

This week we explored rhythms, and wheels, and seasons and hours specifically the Divine Hours and their relationship to seasons and our own internal rhythms. It's been a wonderful creative week of pausing and noticing. The project for the week was to write some Haiku's expressing our feelings and reflections of the seasons and hours, and then to create our own Book of Hours (front of my book pictured above). Here are my Haiku's:

Dawn

purple fingers reach
over the mountain and sky
inhale the new day

Spring

ice cracks in the bay
as the sun's heat grows stronger
robin finds a worm

Day

fullness of day's breath
brings forth energy of creation
hold the momentum

Summer

days are longer still
and nights are warm and breezy
we play as children

Dusk

deep release of dusk
shedding of the old cracked skin
ripe as the full berry

Autumn

oak tree sheds its leaves
and geese fly south for winter
I mourn the wheel's turn

Dark

resting in the pause
contemplate the day's end
where was God in this?

Winter

darkness comes early
as bear sleeps deep in the ground
here dreams will bare fruit

In what ways do the seasons and the hours speak to you?

From Random

* o

Way of the Monk - Week Three

Way of the Monk - Week Two

What would it be like if we treated the every day, common objects that we touch a hundred times over again as sacred tools??

Bless These Hands

Bless these hands
that touch the computer keys
and file
and answer emails
and pick up the phone
over and over again each day.

Bless these hands
that touch the dishes
and towels and sheets
and fold laundry
and sweep the floors
over and over again each day.

Bless these hands
that touch the pen
and scribble words
and cut out images
and paint and glue
over and over again each day.

Bless these hands
that touch the chalice
and wash the vessels
and polish the brass
and clean the linens
over and over again each day.

Bless these hands
that caress a lover
and soothe a child
and hug a friend
and greet a stranger
over and over again each day.

Bless these hands
for all that they touch
is holy and sacred
and common and ordinary
over and over again each day.

(copyright January 2010 - Eveline Maedel) * o

Way of the Monk - Week Two

Way of the Monk - Week One

It's near the end of the first week of the online course I'm taking - "Way of the Monk - Path of the Artist". It's been a week of trying to carve out time for myself, for my creativity and for my sanity! This week has been about exploring the monk and the artist, where they converge and where they split apart. I've spent a lot of time thinking about what draws me to the contemplative life, why I need to be creative, and how come I make myself too busy to enjoy either. I'm also coming to understand that my "inner monk" needs periods of down time to replenish, and so does the "inner artist". I'm coming to terms with the fact that the reason I like to spend a lot of time alone is because I need to build up that inner monk/artist. Not that I want to be a hermit, I just enjoy my solitude. Always have.

One of the assignments this week was to write a poem about what it would mean to start living like a monk and an artist:

I Am Going to Start Living

I am going to start living like a monk,
turning the rhythm of my days
into a prayer to the divine.
Pausing amidst the paper work
and ringing phones,
to stare at the mountains out the window
and soak in silence
with each breath,
until my office becomes a cloister
that shuts out distraction.

I am going to start living like an artist,
turning the rhythm of my days
into a poem of worship.
Pausing to notice the sunrise
painted by a divine hand upon the sky.
Soaking in the creative spirit
with each breath,
until my life becomes a canvas
painted over and over again.

I am going to start living like a mystic,
turning the rhythm of my days
into a cosmic dance.
Pausing between yoga asanas
to notice the breath of spirit,
making each movement a prayer,
until even my simple yoga mat,
becomes holy ground.

(January 2010, copyright Eveline Maedel)

* o

Way of the Monk - Week One

Poetry Moment

All My Body Calls

All my body calls
for something in this sleeping
earth
we call the spirit.

But how
from lifted arms
where stars run through fingers
and the night is like sand
do I breathe a fragrance of its wisdom
do I call its name
or listen to the drops
that trickle down to earth
and hear
life being given
not only through the moving hands of the forest
but through the hand that reaches in
the dark unmoving regions of the chest
and uncovers slowly
the enormous
indistinct
shape of the ocean.

~ David Whyte ~

(Songs for Coming Home)

(photo is of my favorite spot to sit on my walks)

* o

Poetry Moment

Sunday Poetry Moment

Salvation

By what are you saved? And how?
Saved like a bit of string,
tucked away in a drawer?
Saved like a child rushed from
a burning building, already
singed and coughing smoke?
Or are you salvaged
like a car part -- the one good door
when the rest is wrecked?

Do you believe me when I say
you are neither salvaged nor saved,
but salved, anointed by gentle hands
where you are most tender?
Haven't you seen
the way snow curls down
like a fresh sheet, how it
covers everything,
makes everything
beautiful, without exception?

~ Lynn Ungar ~


(Blessing the Bread)

* o

Sunday Poetry Moment

Mid-Week Poetic Moment

The Moment

The moment when, after many years
of hard work and a long voyage
you stand in the centre of your room,
house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,
knowing at last how you got there,
and say, I own this,

is the same moment when the trees unloose
their soft arms from around you,
the birds take back their language,
the cliffs fissure and collapse,
the air moves back from you like a wave
and you can't breathe.

No, they whisper. You own nothing.
You were a visitor, time after time
climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belonged to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way round.

~ Margaret Atwood ~

(morning in the burned house)

* o

Mid-Week Poetic Moment

For My Love

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)

i fear no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

- e. e. cummings ~

(Complete Poems, 1904-1962)

* o

For My Love

For Presence

For Presence

Awaken to the mystery of being here
and enter the quiet immensity of your own presence.

Have joy and peace in the temple of your senses.

Receive encouragement when new frontiers beckon.

Respond to the call of your gift and the courage to
follow its path.

Let the flame of anger free you of all falsity.

May warmth of heart keep your presence aflame.

May anxiety never linger about you.

May your outer dignity mirror an inner dignity of
soul.

Take time to celebrate the quiet miracles that seek
no attention.

Be consoled in the secret symmetry of your soul.

May you experience each day as a sacred gift woven
around the heart of wonder.

~ John O'Donohue ~

(To Bless the Space Between Us)

* o

For Presence

A Poem for Christmas

I love this one - perfect for this time of year. Merry Christmas!

Sharon’s Christmas Prayer

She was five,
sure of the facts,
and recited them
with slow solemnity
convinced every word
was revelation.
She said

they were so poor
they had only peanut butter and jelly sandwiches
to eat
and they went a long way from home
without getting lost. The lady rode
a donkey, the man walked, and the baby
was inside the lady.
they had to stay in a stable
with an ox and an ass (hee-hee)
but the Three Rich Men found them
because a star lited the roof
Shepherds came and you could
pet the sheep but not feed them.
Then the baby was borned.
And do you know who he was?


Her quarter eyes inflated
to silver dollars.
The baby was God.

And she jumped in the air
whirled round, dove into the sofa
and buried her head under the cushion
which is the only proper response
to the Good News of the Incarnation.

by John Shea, The Hour of the Unexpected, Allan, Texas, Argus Communications, 1977 * o

A Poem for Christmas

Give Us Courage

Give Us Courage

Give us courage, gaiety and the quiet mind.
Spare us to our friends, soften to us our enemies.
Bless us, if it may be, in all our innocent endeavors.
If it may not, give us the strength to encounter
that which is to come, that we be brave in peril,
constant in tribulation, temperate in wrath,
and in all changes of fortune and down to the gates
of death, loyal and loving to one another.

~ Robert Louis Stevenson ~

(Prayers Written At Vailima)

* o

Give Us Courage

A Different Migration

MIGRATION
(By Harriet Brown)

All fall you watched the geese fly south,
a soundless movie through the bedroom glass,
their long plain marvelous wings beating,
warm-blooded, creaturely, willing themselves
into their own features. Days after you stopped
speaking, you eyes stayed on that gray sky.
When there was nothing left to hope for,
still the last light in you lifted as they passed.

And now, of course, the geese
are coming back, flying in slow twos
and threes, in sure unbroken lines across
the spring bleached sky as if they know
for certain something that we don't.
I wonder if, wherever you are, you know it too.

The seasons are marked by the honking of geese in the sky. They are marked by other things too. A packed vehicle, an empty room, a quieter house. They return, but each return is different - and every leaving another step on the journey. * o

A Different Migration

This...in my email this morning...

Today's poem offering from the Panhala list speaks volumes to me right now:

In the Middle

of a life that's as complicated as everyone else's,
struggling for balance, juggling time.
The mantle clock that was my grandfather's
has stopped at 9:20; we haven't had time
to get it repaired. The brass pendulum is still,
the chimes don't ring. One day you look out the window,
green summer, the next, and the leaves have already fallen,
and a grey sky lowers the horizon. Our children almost grown,
our parents gone, it happened so fast. Each day, we must learn
again how to love, between morning's quick coffee
and evening's slow return. Steam from a pot of soup rises,
mixing with the yeasty smell of baking bread. Our bodies
twine, and the big black dog pushes his great head between;
his tail is a metronome, 3/4 time. We'll never get there,
Time is always ahead of us, running down the beach, urging
us on faster, faster, but sometimes we take off our watches,
sometimes we lie in the hammock, caught between the mesh
of rope and the net of stars, suspended, tangled up
in love, running out of time.

~ Barbara Crooker ~
(Yarrow)

photo: bumblebee - beside the deck this morning

* o

This...in my email this morning...

New Song

She sings a new song,

gives lift to a new dance,

notes inscribed on her heart,

give hope another chance.

* o

New Song

Little bits of the end of March

Take the whole kit
with the caboodle
Experience life
don't deplore it
Shake hands with time
don't kill it
Open a lookout
Dance on a brink
Run with your wildfire
You are closer to glory
leaping an abyss
than upholstering a rut

~ James Broughton ~

(Little Sermons of the Big Joy)

I got totally inspired for the above collage from Kelly Rae Roberts article in the latest Cloth Paper Scissors issue. Actually I got inspired by a lot of things and I have no idea why I never thought to check it out before!

Got Teesha Moore's latest Art & Life issue today in the mail so I'll be pouring over that the next few days. Such a visual feast and it always makes me want to grab my journal, paint and play. (....There's a little piece of Teesha in the above collage...)

April will find me busy trying to complete my integration project for my Henri Nouwen course. I've been immersed in Nouwen's writings for two months now and have enjoyed every moment of it. My final project is going to be a collage, but I won't post the details until it is complete (surprise!). There is so much flying around in my head for it right now, I hope it translates OK from head to canvass.

Currently listening to Susan Lincoln's "Mother Heart" CD - beautiful.

Waiting for spring.....

* o

Little bits of the end of March

Silence

Come,
pray with open hands,
emptied and willing to receive.
Uncurl and unclench fists - let
go of all you are clinging to,
hang on to nothing.

You have nothing to offer
and everything to receive.
Be willing to be empty and choice less.

You have made it to here - you do
not need to worry about anywhere else.

I wrote the above at a silent retreat yesterday, in response to the question "What does God want me to let go of?". The day of silence was so very welcoming and refreshing to me. I have been exhausted by words and talking lately, and was definitely ready to enter a room and not have to make small talk. All that was required of me was that I sit and listen.

While eating lunch in silence with about 40 or so others, I thought silence is such a great equalizer. Without listening to anyone speak, I made no judgments or impressions about anyone else in the room. I wasn't basing my likes or dislikes on something someone was saying. Everyone was the same without words. Silence is very communal.

The other great joy of my day yesterday was the opportunity to meet with Sister Elizabeth (SSJD), my Associate Director. We only had about twenty minutes to chat, but it was an opportunity to connect, and for me to get some wonderful advice and affirmation. God is good. * o

Silence

A Psalm of Signs

Frustrated, I plunked myself
down on the couch
and cried out,
"Lord, I asked for a sign.
For you to show me something
on my walk,
something that would assure me
you were there and you cared.
And what do I get?
Nothing. Where were you, Lord?"

And softly the Lord replied,

"My beloved child,
I warmed your face with sunshine,
and sent a soft breeze to caress you.
I dipped my paintbrush in lush paints
of crimson yellow and fire red
and oh so carefully painted each leaf
for you.
With the same paintbrush, I
colored the sky in more shades of
blue than an artist could begin to capture.
I perfumed the air with an earthy, woodsy
scent hinting of decaying leaves and moss.
I scattered a thousand shimmering rays
of sunlight to dance upon the water,
more dazzling than any display in a
jeweler's window.
I sang to you , with the songs of chickadees,
ravens and gulls,
while poplar leaves in golden gowns shimmied
and swayed to the breeze.
I sponge-painted perfectly designed circles
of moss on the boulders and
I whispered words of comfort on the wind.

Signs? My beloved child, I placed them
all around you.
I can not help that you chose to walk
with eyes closed."

@Eveline Maedel - 2007 * o

A Psalm of Signs

Poetry and Prayer

Christine at Abbey of the Arts shared this poem a couple of weeks ago. It was speaking to me this morning and I wanted to share it again.

Forget Everything
By John Squadra

If someone says, "To be enlightened you must
fast and pray all night,"
Have dinner and go to bed.
If you see a sign, "This way to salvation,"
run the other way.
If someone says, "This book is the truth,
you can buy it from me,"
Take your money and buy grapes and roses.
If someone says, "He's talking tonight,
thousands will be saved."

Go for a walk...listen to the birds
and watch the clouds, and leave
your backpack, your Bible and your Buddha
under a tree and hope
they will be gone when you return.
Where we are going you can't carry anything,
not even your name.
If there is logic in the above,
be afraid, it's a lie.

But if you feel something in your chest
as beautiful as the grass beneath your feet,
be grateful...open your arms
and forget everything
you ever thought you knew.

Source: This Ecstasy

(image: altoid tin shrine I made this summer) * o

Poetry and Prayer