Praying the Poetry of the Universe

Almost 30 years ago, I made my first pilgrimage to Wales. I landed in Manchester, England, with a group of people who were to become friends and companions. Befuddled with jet lag, we climbed aboard our little bus, and headed southwest, into the Brecon Beacons—the land of hobbits and elves. I had gone to Wales because I’d been reading and studying Celtic spirituality, thanks to a little book of prayers from Scotland, Ireland, Brittany, Cornwall and Wales, all newly translated into English. The prayers were poems! These prayer-poems were arranged on a 30 day rota, for morning and evening, with eloquent commentary by Esther de Waal and A.M. Allchin. They were lovely songs and hymns, poems that sang of sacred Presence in and through the creation. The poem-prayers gave me language for something I’d known since I was a little girl: that everything is soaked with divine presence. I found that I was not alone in that perception that there’s a deep eternal Voice that sings everything into being. The awareness stirred by those poems was soon to be enriched and expanded during the two week pilgrimage.

            At a retreat center in Abergavenny, we were introduced to Patrick Thomas, a lovely bilingual Welsh writer and Anglican priest. He would recite bits of poetry in Welsh, and then translate them for us. He told us that the Welsh word for universe is “bydysawd,” which means “that which is baptized.” Following the tradition of the early church in the Christian east, here baptism is revelatory. The washing with water reveals what is deeply true: the sacredness of each person, the inherent beauty and goodness of each of us. “Bydysawd” expands that contemplative insight. That one word tells us: all is woven through with divine presence. In other words, the Celtic take on matter is that it is shot through with light and love. Patrick told us that in Welsh tradition, it is understood that “landscape heals.” How could that be? In the Welsh crags, in those forests, in the streams and at the seashore, generations of poets had heard and reported the ongoing language of love that comes through the natural world. The universe, in essence, is viewed as a poem—a poem that is ever-renewed, ever-refreshed by the Holy One who sings it into being. The universe beckons us to stop, to listen deeply, to remember a time when human language did not clot our brains and hearts, but served to open the brain, the heart, the soul, the body to wonder, to delight and to profound compassion. This is a vision of everything being knit together, all coming from the same mysterious and beloved Source. The Celtic way invites us to stop analyzing and to allow our capacity to behold to stir and awaken. When we behold, we are in a state of profound respect and humility, having let go of our cultural practices of grasping and possessing. In the words of John O’Donohue, “I really find the landscape an incredible presence, a companion in my life….Landscape is the firstborn of creation.”[1]

            This companion that is the landscape offers to befriend us. If we allow this, if we can be in contemplative stillness and simply sit with the natural setting, it will disclose itself. For centuries, various Celtic bards and story tellers have spoken of this. It is said of St. David of Wales that once when he was preaching and was trying to make a point to a gathered group of hundreds, the land itself lifted him up. Fanciful? Surely to our 21st century minds and hearts this seems almost a fairy tale. Almost. And yet, there is something here that is ancient: a sense that we abide in a context not of our making. We live and move and have our being in natural settings that have pre-existed us for eons. These settings bear a wisdom that we no longer remember. They have much to tell us.

            Once, when I was sitting on rocks above the sea on Ramsey Island, I had the disconcerting impression that the rocks were speaking—not in words or a language that was of human derivation. They were communicating nonetheless. I had that startling moment of renewed confrontation with the truth of my smallness, my finite nature, and the strong medicine of knowing how very much I do not know, nor will I never know. At the same time, this came through with such astounding love and mercy. Later, after the experience had time to distill. I wrote this poem:

STONES

Listen.

The stones speak.

These age old elemental beings

tell of the hand

that drew forth waters.

Hush. Be still.

For pity’s sake quiet the chatter.

These stones speak.   

The land, nature, the cosmos are revealed to be “words” in an ode, created eternally. At every nano-second, the universe is sung into being, and the ongoing poetry of this is beheld through our senses, and intuited by our souls. The Psalmist knew this. It’s the ancient awareness that “one day tells its tale to another” (Ps. 19:2). This is a poetry that is profoundly, disconcertingly, embodied. Praying with the Poet who speaks forth everything that is leads us to a steadying sense of being ever held in the presence of God, and stunningly awakened to an exquisite intimacy of love. In our busy, internet filled lives, we are often estranged from this primal connection to nature. Our DNA does remember. Encoded within us we have that ancestral sense of kinship to the dirt, the rocks, the trees, the plants, with the four legged of the planet. One of the lovely fruits of contemplative practice is the steady deliverance from the imprisonment of my own version of reality. Still, quiet time in a natural setting allows us to breathe with all that breathes. We begin to notice that we are being breathed.

  So many years ago, I had come to Wales grieving the death of a dear friend and worried about family situations. After we spent time with Patrick Thomas, we headed to St. David’s on the sea. One morning, I took my aching heart to the cliffs about St. Non’s well. The cobalt sky was above me, glorious green grass cushioned my body and the sea below offered its own melody. I lay there, basking in the sun. I had the peculiar feeling that the grief was being absorbed by the very earth. The grief did not completely disappear. It was eased. My breath shifted. My body felt like it did after a quieting yoga session. A gentle sense of being at one, at peace, at rest, began to take hold. I was held, upheld, beheld. As strange as this may sound, I truly sensed I was being cradled by Mother Earth, in a cellular way. Sky above, earth below, the sea sounding not only in my ears, but in my whole being. Lying upon that grass helped restore a frayed and almost forgotten relationship to what poet Marge Piercy has called “the common, living dirt.”

Later, I reported this experience to a new Welsh friend who had joined us in St. David’s. Her observation: “Of course, the Holy One abides in the land. In fact, the natural world is the first poem. It’s the first way in which the divine Word comes to us. Just think of the creation account in Genesis 1.” The land is a poem? There’s a voice speaking in the mountains and valleys, the snow and the rain, the sleet and the fog? Yes, there is.

This experience brought me home to my own experience as a child. Brought up going to my grandparents’ land in the hill country of Texas, I watched my grandmother Golda’s friendly attitude toward the flora and fauna of that territory. Limestone outcroppings full of fossils. Quartz ready to be plucked from the caliche clay soil. Striped bass moving in the water. Copperhead snakes camouflaged by leaves. Frogs singing in the summer night. A veritable symphony of sound. Because Golda was not afraid (though she was reasonably cautious), I learned not to fear that wildness. I followed her example. Only later did I begin to realize that her alert yet relaxed way of being in that place was the essence of contemplative practice. She allowed her senses to quicken, and to stir within her that desire to attend to the presence of the Holy One. Once she returned from a walk, glowing with wonder, and announced to us grandchildren: “Such a gift I have been given! I have seen two king snakes mating!” Her vision of everything—every single thing—being potentially a sign of presence formed my own way of seeing.

As I began to learn more of the Celtic tradition, I discovered a phrase that comes from Wales: “God’s presence makes the world.” Each tiny subatomic particle, each far off galaxy, each cell within our bodies is held together by a loving Mystery that is beyond our comprehension, beyond our reason. For centuries, poets in Wales have waited and watched, then sought the words to express that encounter. Euros Bowen, a Welsh poet of the 20th century, felt that the poetic endeavor was to praise “the goodness present in the world.” Of course, in order to do that, one first has to be open to that goodness, to perceive on a daily basis the unfolding mystery of the creation, to let wonder overtake us. This leads, if we are patient, to a strong moral response. The inherent goodness of the prickly pear cactus or the turkey vulture or the octopus challenges our incessant, entrenched patterns of consumption and greed. This is where the Spirit takes us. From awareness and attention, to deepening love and compassion, to understanding that love of neighbor comprehends that natural world.

It all begins with listening. It all begins with taking the time to hear that poem that is creation, to receive it with our bodies, minds and spirits.

In the Celtic tradition, there’s such a lovely emphasis on the bardic tradition. All are invited to participate in this sacred practice of being poets. To this day, in Wales, a festival called the Eisteddfod is held annually, in which as many as 6,000 participants offer poetry and songs as part of a competition. The roots of this festival go back to the 12th century, when a Welsh king decided to invite bards to offer their songs and poems for the pleasure of the court. Much of the exquisite medieval poetry from Wales comes from royal courts, whose poets were supported by the royal houses. Often when I lead retreats on Celtic spirituality, I remind those present that we all have a capacity to sing to the Holy One. (My mother used to create little goofy song poems of praise about our cats and dogs. I have inherited that trait.) In closing, I invite you to participate in this practice:

With the above as context and background, consider this poem from the early Celtic tradition; we will be using the poem as a springboard for a contemplative poem writing practice. First, read the poem slowly two or three times.

“The Song of Amergin”

I am the wind that breathes upon the sea,

I am the wave on the ocean,

I am the murmur of leaves rustling,

I am the rays of the sun,

I am the beam of the moon and stars,

I am the power of trees growing,

I am the bud breaking into blossom,

I am the movement of the salmon swimming,

I am the courage of the wild boar fighting,

I am the speed of the stag running,

I am the strength of the ox pulling the plough,

I am the size of the mighty oak tree,

And I am the thoughts of all people

Who praise my beauty and grace.      

Now put the poem aside, and sit quietly. Allow your attention to focus on your breath, gently breathing in and out. As your body settles gently, call to memory a landscape that offered you beauty or wildness or safety or home. It could be a national park, your own backyard, a place visited only once or a site that you visit regularly. Once you have been given the memory, allow yourself to notice the following:

What do you smell? Make note of any aromas or scents. Take your time. Let yourself receive any whiffs of the trees or plants, animals or birds.

What do you see? Notice colors, textures, kinds of plants and animals. In your imagination, slowly regard all that you are beholding.

What do you hear? Listen for sounds loud and soft, familiar and strange. Listen for what is loud, and for what is soft. Let the land speak.

What do you touch? Attend to the air on your skin, the way your face feels, what your hands and feet may be sensing.

What do you taste? Sometimes a taste will come to us in nature, often associated with aroma. Be open to the flavors of the space.

Gently behold the place, and give thanks. Then in the quiet of your meditation, offer a blessing to the place.

When you are ready, quietly open your eyes.

Last, begin writing your own “I am…” poem, drawing from what you have remembered and rediscovered through the meditation. Write 8-12 lines, beginning each line with “I am…”, drawing from the riches of what you have smelled, seen, heard, touched and tasted in the quiet. Once the poem has been written, give thanks for your own inherent bardic life, and for the Holy One whose love sings all into being, from the tiniest particle to the farthest galaxy, and everything in between. Return to your poem as you feel led, and let it pray within you.

[1] John O’Donohue, Walking in Wonder:Eternal Wisdom for a Modern World (New York: Crown Publishing, 2015), pp. 46, 49.

For further reading:

Newell, John Philip. The Book of Creation. 1999.

O’Donohue, John. To Bless the Space Between Us, 2008

Poems From An Interminable Summer

Too Hot Texas

The thermometer says 106.

The grass feels like needles in my bare feet.

Yet the cenizo is blooming like crazy,

lovely purple blossoms opening to receive heat.

I recall dear Abba Moses:

“Go to your cell

and your cell will teach you everything.”

In this cell that is mi tierra, my homeland,

in the middle of a brutal July,

teach me to bloom

when water is scarce.

Teach me to bloom

when it seems impossible.

 July 11, 2022

Esperando con esperanzas

 So many years ago I taught Spanish

To mostly unwilling students.

I loved to offer them the verb esperar.

It’s a plain old “-ar” verb.

No tricks in its conjugation.

No new dipthongs showing up.

Just the regular pattern,

the structure you can lean into, trust.

Here’s the gift:

esperar means both to wait

And to hope.

In Spanish, you can’t do one without the other.

In Spanish, they are twin sisters,

joined at the hip.

In Spanish, waiting and hoping go hand in hand.

In my garden, during this harsh drought,

as my esperanza shrubs offer up a lush bounty

of deep yellow flowers,

and the hummingbirds drink deeply,

then fly off a bit under the influence,

I want to remember this:

Esperando, even in this season in which

every darn thing is overheated, stressed, blanched,

fried, crisped, dried out

hope is with us, holding our hand,

bringing us

abundant yellow joy and hummingbird friends.

Zinnias—De colores!!

We have had so little rain

for so long.

Yet these zinnias keep offering their fiesta colors:

Magenta, hot pink, neon orange.

Unabashed, unfazed--

the zinnias keep on budding,

keep on blooming,

keep on feeding those buzzing bees.

Of course, I am encouraging them

with cool water every morning.

A wet communion.

We greet yet another day of beastly heat

with a resolve to not only keep on,

but to show off all the colors,

all the beauty,

all the joy.

Viva!

Living After the Dinosaurs: Beginning Anew

           Around five years ago, I started growing wildflowers in a garden by our sidewalk. A friend helped dig out the space, put in new soil and then edge the plot with bricks. That October, I sowed seed from Wildseed Farm in Fredericksburg, Texas. Then I waited. In no time at all little seedlings appeared. They seemed undaunted by winter weather, and by March were gaining stature. Then the flowers showed up—an amazing display! Larkspur, cosmos, Drummond phlox, bluebonnets, Indian paintbrush, Indian blanket, coreopsis, poppies. Neighbors would stop and chat with Doug and me, thanking us for the wildflower display. They even put up with plants going to seed, acknowledging our little sign that said, “Please be patient, these seeds will bring new flowers next spring.”

            Then in March 2020, we went into lockdown. I had sowed some new seeds to add to the ones in the garden. The profusion of flowers was amazing. Because we were all at home, trying to avoid Covid, there were so many more families walking by. Doug and I watched families take photos with the wildflowers. Some folks would stop almost every day, and take a photo, perhaps documenting the progress. That May we had an awful hailstorm, which destroyed the wildflowers. So, I planted zinnia seeds. They thrived, and we had zinnia admirers stopping by every day. At the end of the summer, when it was time for the zinnia plants to go to compost, I made little zinnia bouquets to hand out to neighbors as they walked by. I still think of that as zinnia communion.

            This past fall I once again got some new seed from Wildseed Farms. I cast those seeds in October. They were coming up beautifully. 

            Then in late January, Google Fiber began making a trench down our street. The noise was awful. Fiona, our border collie, can’t stand the noise of big machinery. She was spending a lot of time in my closet, trying to decompress. 

            Just when we thought the work was finished, we came home from our favorite plant nursery to discover that Google Fiber workers had parked a big machine for digging on top of my wildflowers. The young plants were completely, utterly crushed. Then the workers proceeded to dig up the bluebonnets that were coming up outside the perimeter of the original garden bed. The workers were making a deep hole for some piece of equipment that would be underground.

All of this hit me in the gut. Brother and sister gardeners know that feeling. I got tears in my eyes. I was sad and mad. It was so rude. No one either asked permission or let us know that it was going to happen. When I called the number that Google Fiber had given us to report problems, I was met with an unctuous, uncomprehending reply. No apology was offered. 

            I kept looking out the window at that machine, which felt like a big dinosaur, tearing up beauty and stomping all over what was small and vulnerable.

            When the machine finally went down the street with the workers, Doug and I cleared the crushed wildflowers and put them in the compost. We added compost to the garden’s soil, and dug it in. Then I added new seed for larkspur and cosmos. It’s too late to try to start a lot of the wildflowers from seed. A few days later, the Google Fiber people were back out in front, placing cable in their trenches. And where were they placing the cable before it was unwound? On the wildflower bed. I went out and politely asked if they could please move it away from that area, since it was dedicated to wildflowers. As I walked back down the driveway, I heard one of the young guys say to his boss, “Wild what?”  I realized they had no sense of what that plot meant to us and to our neighbors.

            Yesterday, Doug and I bought six new bluebonnet plants to put in the garden. Later today, I’ll plant them in the sun, give them a blessing, and hope they will flourish in that spot. 

            As Benedictine spirituality tells us, “Always we begin again.” 

Welcoming the Stranger: aka Xochi

 Last January 9, which is my father’s birthday, we made a match with a kitten that had been dumped at an HEB (our local grocery store chain). A kindhearted soul noticed this little tabby female at the entry to the store. The kitten was stropping legs, meowing, looking for something to eat. The kitten who would become Xochi was taken to a lovely home for fostering, and soon her picture appeared in my Facebook feed. As sometimes happens, I saw that photo and realized: This is the kitty we are hoping for! We had been sensing that it was time to bring a new cat into the household, for Fiona (our border collie) was clearly at a loss after the death of Leftovers, who lived a very full 19 years. Leftovers helped raise Fiona, and they were close friends. She was moping and so were we.

 So, on my Dad’s birthday, we set out to meet Xochi. I was quite sure that Dad, who always had a soft spot for animals needing a home, was the gentle spirit behind this matchmaking. No doubt, from his perspective in the community of saints, Dad was interceding for us, asking that the right feline might come our way.

 We drove out to a house near Leon Springs. The woman who was fostering the kitty brought her out from the laundry room. My husband Doug said that the minute he saw that dear little face, he knew she was going home with us. And she did.

 At first, having a 3-4 month old kitten was a little like having a baby. I got up with her during the night when she was hungry. I made sure she had water and was warm. Then, within a week, that fuzz ball had decided that the only place to sleep was at the foot of the bed. She liked our company! In ways subtle and not, Xochi (which is an Aztec word meaning “flower”) set about rearranging our schedules. At first, she did not go outside. Over time, as the weather warmed, she was allowed out, with a collar, for short times. She learned over time to climb trees and to catch lizards. She became more and more courageous, venturing farther out into the yard. Now she is queen of the backyard, and has the good sense not to venture over the fence where the barking dogs live.

 Initially not at all sure what to make of a dog, Xochi would hiss at Fiona, who would retreat, looking so sad. Fiona would try again. And again. Over time, they have become friends. Occasionally they sleep next to each other on our bed. They play their version of “hide and seek.” They also do “parallel play” when they are outside, and sometimes Xochi surprises Fiona by jumping out from a hiding place in the plumbago.

 Now Xochi is around a year old. She eats adult Science Diet cat food. She won’t keep a collar on, letting us know that she can handle herself, thank you very much. She isn’t a lap cat, but she is very sociable. When we work in the gardens, she is always interested in what we are doing. When she hears us drive into the car port, she stirs from sleep and comes to see what’s up. We reciprocate by checking on her whereabouts throughout the day, and by greeting her with nose-bumps. She occasionally puts a paw on me, as if to say, “You are mine.” 

 I look back on bringing her home, adjusting to her kitten behaviors, living through the awful week of SNOWVID with her in heat (she was spayed as soon as the vet would allow), teaching her about being outside, playing her various games and enjoying her presence and all I can say is, “Thank God she came to live with us.” We needed a younger presence in this house. We needed the silly antics of a kitten and the pleasure of watching the ongoing discoveries of a young cat. We needed her company. 

 She came to us as a little stranger, needing food and shelter, water and warmth. We said to her, in the bilingual tradition of San Antonio, “Aqui tienes tu casa. Nuestra casa es tu casa.” Fiona wagged her tail. We grinned like crazy. And a kitten brought her own joy and spiritual direction to this household.

Now The Green Blade Riseth

A month ago, our yard and gardens were white with snow for a week. In San Antonio. Two rounds of snow, plus single digit temperatures. Add to that power outages and a couple of days with no water. We were among the fortunate in that we had time to fill bathtubs and pitchers with potable water. And we have a gas stove. 

As is the case in this state, the temperatures the following week were in the 70s. So, of course, the snow melted. 

We (like everyone throughout the state) were left with a yard and gardens that were so freeze burned they were black. In the vegetable garden, the broccoli and cauliflower had literally melted. I’ve never seen anything like it. Plants that usually survive a couple of freezes in the 20s were blasted. It was rather like looking at death. Because death had come to the plants and trees. 

Given that we were beginning to close in on the one year anniversary of living with this pandemic, the yard and gardens made me uneasy. I couldn’t seem to get the energy to observe, let alone attend, to the gardens that I love so much. Too much was lost. 

Those of you who are gardeners will understand this. Plants and shrubs, herbs and flowers become friends of a sort. Gardeners get to know the flora they care for. Those plants teach us along the way, offering beauty and nutrition, enhancing flavors and smells. It’s a very sweet exchange most of the time. 

I suppose it seems silly to speak of grief. Yet that’s what it was. Some family death anniversaries fall around this time, and of course, we have known some who have suffered the devastation of COVID. The country had marked the deaths of 500,000 people just before the SNOWVID events occurred. I know I was not alone in feeling overwhelmed and out of gas. 

One day a couple of weeks ago I finally got the courage to look at the holly ferns in the front yard. There, right in front of me, a new fern frond was unfolding. Out of a whorl of dead and mushy leaves, that new frond emerged with a beautiful chartreuse hue. As I looked closer, I saw tiny new leaves on the salvia greggi, the Mexican mint marigold, the oregano, the Mexican petunias. 

Those new leaves are so small. It will take several years for those plants to fully recover. Some may never look as robust as they did before that week in February 2021. Nevertheless, the new life is there, literally rising from the ground. Many of the experts I trust in the gardening world keep saying, “Be patient. Native plants will probably return. Texas trees like live oaks have the DNA that has remembered the wild extremes of Texas weather.” So, I look to the magnificent old live oak in our front yard, still standing steady, going through its annual spring leaf fall. Beneath its canopy, salvias, Turk’s cap, plumbago, shrimp plant, foxtail fern and cana lilies are beginning to muster new life. 

Much in the wildflower garden survived, though about a third of those plants were a slimy mess and needed to be pulled up. Now, the bluebonnets are beginning to bloom, which gives me so much joy. Neighbors are stopping to take photos, just like they did last spring when we were all on lockdown and everyone was walking daily. I love to stand at the kitchen window and watch as parents show the bluebonnets to their children, as older friends and neighbors stop and gaze with affection at the unfolding bluebonnet blue.

It may be the fourth week of Lent, but I’m humming an Easter hymn, “Now the green blade riseth.” And sometimes adding this favorite: “All our hope on God is founded.” The gospel of the gardens gives us hope and community, death and life, prayer and work, community and communion. As a prayer from the Hebrides leads us to praise, “Glory, glory, glory to you, thou great God of life, glory to you.” Amen.

Waiting In Silence

We have waited in silence on your loving-kindness, O God. 
—Psalms 48:8

Most of the time, we don’t wait. And we certainly don’t wait in silence. Most of the time, we hurry and we push. We split time into tenths of seconds. We fret when a traffic light turns red and holds us up for a bit. The press of hurrying creates harried and hassled souls, disconnected from life and from kindness itself.

By contrast, in Spanish, the verb esperar means both “to hope” and “to wait.” I have a native plant called esperanza in my gardens. It grows and blooms in the driest conditions, offering copious blossoms in gold or orange. When the blooms come, I am reminded of waiting in silence on loving-kindness. I am reminded of something that my usual pace all but obliterates: there is a way of being and knowing that is grounded in timing I did not create. There is a way of being and knowing that dimly remembers that waiting in hope is an attitude of faith. 

Waiting in silence, creating space for steadfast love to grow within, may be the most essential practice of all. It is in many ways the spirit of Advent, that time of the Christian liturgical year when we practice the waiting of gestation and hoping, of trusting in new life not yet fully known. 

Thomas Merton, Trappist monk and author, remarked that life is a perpetual Advent. He sensed that in that waiting, trust began to grow. Trust in God, trust in the Holy One who is beyond all that is created and is the source of all things, seen and unseen. Trusting and waiting allow the loving-kindness that is the essence of God’s own Life to grow in us, and to bear fruit that we never expected.

Grant me O God the capacity to wait in hope, to allow your own loving-kindness to grow in me, for the life of your world. Amen.

This meditation originally was published by ExploreFaith.org
Copyright ©2006 Mary C. Earle

Ground and Grounding

Ground and Grounding:
Life During the Pandemic

The Garden by the Sidewalk

I am a gardener. I am 71 years old, retired and living on ¾ of an acre in San Antonio, TX. My husband and I both have some health issues, so we have been living like hobbits since March 12, when my doctor said to me, “You need to go home and hibernate.” We have kept sane by keeping a daily rhythm that includes online morning prayer and compline (prayer at the end of the day) with our Episcopal church, meal preparation, house cleaning, reading, knitting, tending to our dog and cat, and the care and maintenance of all of our gardens.

With my own case of “COVID brain” (so-called by many, due to the ongoing stress we are experiencing) it’s been important to remember the poet Mary Oliver’s guidance:

Pay attention. 

Be astonished.

Tell about it.

Almost more than anything, digging, weeding and planting has kept me oriented toward the One in whom we live and move and have our being. Both of my grandmothers were gardeners, and they had continued to grow flowers, herbs and vegetables through two world wars, the Spanish flu epidemic of 1918-1919, the Great Depression and a variety of family tragedies. I have felt their presences close at hand as I’ve gotten dirty and sweaty. I find myself marveling at new life of all sorts, and also giving thanks for plants that are ready for compost. I always visit with the plants, thanking them for their beauty and their offerings, taking time to notice their health and to pay attention to the state of the gardens overall. 

I have had a wildflower bed in the front yard this year, and once we were on lockdown, many families began stopping to admire bluebonnets and scarlet phlox, then larkspur and coreopsis daisies. The people who were stopping were of almost as many colors as the flowers! This past couple of weeks, it has felt like the flowers are an offering of healing—I watch as parents point out flowers to their children, as some walkers take selfies with their dogs and the flowers, as occasional runners pause to drink their water and take in the Indian blanket and California poppies. It’s a kind of communion, a kind of deep connection and care. I have met a lot of neighbors that I had not previously known. I have had the happy experience of being engaged in watering or weeding, and hearing someone holler, “LOVE YOUR FLOWERS!” The garden has offered beauty and diversity of color and shape and scent. And it has called forth the beauty of the diversity of this neighborhood, and helped us to call forth kindness and care from one another. 

At one point, a young neighbor drew a lovely chalk rendering of the flowers on the sidewalk, and wrote beneath it, “Good people live around here!” Her experience of the flowers, and of the walkers, runners, bikers, skateboarders, dogs, parents, children, was one of kindness and connection.

(Originally published in Contemplative Life) 

(If you can’t walk or drive by to enjoy the flowers, I hope you will enjoy this virtual garden tour with a few unexpected guests. . .)

Extended Family: Our Kith and Kin of the Natural World

“The One who made thee, made me likewise.”

(Prayer from the Hebridean Islands)

I was fortunate to grow up spending a lot of time with my maternal grandmother. Golda was of Scots-Irish descent, and she had a lively sense of the gifts that the natural world has to offer. My early years were happily shaped by observing her sense of kinship with her gardens and the creatures that inhabited her yard in San Antonio. My grandparents also owned a good bit of land north of the city, in the Texas hill country. On many a weekend, particularly in the summers, my siblings and I were with Golda on the creek, learning to catch fish and to greet the wildlife.

We developed a healthy respect for non-poisonous snakes, scorpions and daddy long legs spiders (they tended to live in the out-house, which was a little disconcerting). We developed the kind of listening skills that could sort out the snort of a white tail buck, the snuffling of an armadillo and the yowl of a panther. We had a practice of gathering fossils, flint rocks and beautiful quartz from the land. Some of that quartz is around my fish pond, reminding me of that well-loved habitat.

Now I am in my seventh decade, and I look back with so much gratitude. In her singular way, Golda taught me to behold the natural world on the lookout for divine Presence. She was not inclined to talk about it. Yet I recall watching her water her gardens in the hot, dry days of July and August. Backlit by the morning sun, the water spraying from the hose glimmered with light. In fact, to me, it looked like liquid light, like glory, like radiant Mystery. In the dry seasons, every morning Golda watered those gardens. She would invite me to tag along, and we were companions in that fragrant silence, caught in a kind of grateful adoration. 

Golda also occasionally talked to her plants. She would thank the roses for their blooms and commiserate with the wilting sweet peas. I could sense the love she bore toward those living beings. And I “caught” that awareness, that deep kinship. Occasionally she would impart some of her inherited wisdom about the plants and creatures. She had an area dedicated to cultivating earth worms, just outside her back stoop. When I spent the night with her, we would practice the ritual of taking coffee grounds to the earth worms, offering them those nutrients. From time to time, Golda would dig some of the worms, and take them to other gardens in the yard, taking care to cover them well with dirt. 

Being with my grandmother taught me to be in nature with kindness and respect. She knew plants, as in the Spanish word “conocer”—which means to know in the sense of being acquainted with, befriending, caring about. These days, much of what guides me in my own tending of gardens and land was learned by watching Golda. Those early years with her have given me that happy experience of sometimes doing something, and realizing I learned it from watching her.

Years later, when I was in seminary, a dear friend gave me my first book of prayers from the Celtic tradition—Daily Readings in Prayer and Praise from the Celtic Tradition, edited by A.M. Allchin and Esther DeWaal. There I found a prayer from the Outer Hebrides, the prayer you see at the top of this article. I discovered that the Celtic prayer tradition is grounded in a keen ability to see the world translucent with divine Presence. Further, this tradition holds that since everything that is comes from the same loving Source, we are all kin—the two leggeds and the four leggeds, as Native Americans put it. 

The Celtic tradition leads us to bow before the live oak tree and the dandelion, the bluebonnet and the rock rose, the fire ant and the worm snake. 

“The One who made thee, made me likewise.”

This way of seeing and praying leads us to remember that we did not bring any of these wonders into being. In this time of climate change, we are awakened from our torpor, and led to see how terrible it is to watch whole species disappear. We are losing our family members! As we are led to remember and rediscover the beauty of this interconnected kinship, we are opened to wonder and to compassion. No longer do we see a plant solely for its utility. An heirloom tomato becomes a source of delightful surprise—how did that seed become this delicious fruit? How did that tiny, almost invisible seed become this glorious purple carrot? 

When we allow ourselves to behold the natural world, to perceive all of the life unfolding around us, we may sense that stirring of ancient awareness. We may find ourselves discovering that sacred ground, right outside the back door, right where those earth worms dwell. 

“The One who made thee, made me likewise.”

Did You Sing Your Song?

This still-new year, 2020, is proving to have happy surprises for me. My book of poetry, Did You Sing Your Song?, has been released by Material Media, a small press here in San Antonio. Some of you have purchased the book, and have given me such gracious feedback. One person said that the voice heard in the poems is “authentic.” That’s feedback that every writer craves! Others have told me that they are reading the poems a day at a time, sometimes using them for reflection and meditation. One woman said, “These are the first poems about grief that have spoken to me.” I am so grateful for the hospitality being offered to the book, and for the readers who are letting me know which poems speak to them. If you are interested in buying a copy, you can purchase one in San Antonio at The Twig Bookstore at The Pearl. Online, you may purchase a book from the publisher, Material Media. Here’s the link:

https://materialmedia.com/product/did-you-sing-your-song. 

 You may also purchase the book online, though I’d prefer that you support either The Twig or Material Media.

 My friend Christine Valters Painter has featured Did You Sing Your Song? on her website:

https://abbeyofthearts.com/blog/2019/12/04/featured-poet-mary-c-earle/

Christine joined Roberta Bondi and Olga Samples-Davis in endorsing my book; I am so grateful for the gracious and supportive community of poets.

 Here are a couple of poems from the book to stir your interest:

ELEMENTS

Rock, water, earth, sky—

These very atoms are kin to me, kin to you.

When this flesh becomes dust,

I look forward to the reunion,

to the joining again with these elements

that somehow become living bodies.

Rock, water, earth, sky—

Light within sea, life within rock.

Death within life, and life within death.

Rock, water, earth, sky—

The One who made you

made me likewise,

and we are kin, you and I.

ADVENT INTIMATIONS

Flash of fin in a curling wave.

Whirr of feathers in the ancient oak.

Glint of moon shadows patterning the grass.

Heaps and humps of tunneled earth.

Ripples and flutters in a quickening womb.

Hints. Suggestions. Glimmerings.

Keep watch.

“The One Who Made Thee”

            It’s late October in San Antonio, which means that we are bathed in golden light, particularly in the early morning and late afternoon. It’s as if we are being actively reminded of the divine Glory that brings all into being, and sustains every particle of creation. Walking around the yard in the late afternoon sun, my vision is literally dazzled—the light is such that I sometimes have to duck my head, or use sunglasses.

            In addition, we are in the midst of the annual migration of monarch butterflies. Once the nectars have warmed on the blue spires indigo, the Turk’s cap, the salvia greggii, the bright orange cosmos, the butterfly bush, the Mexican sunflowers, the monarchs swirl around in bright winged clouds, stopping to sip, then gently wafting to another blossom. While Doug and I watch, there’s a gentle constant motion—not frenetic, not even busy. The monarchs move with a kind of floating elegance. They are being joined by a host of other butterflies—sulphurs, viceroys, Gulf fritillaries, swallowtails--to name a few.

            It is within this larger context that I gaze out from our porch and pray for this country and this Earth. We have lived through a week that saw pipe bombs sent to Democratic leaders, 11 Jews killed in a synagogue while worshipping, two African Americans murdered out of hate. 

            I, for one, need the balance of this gentle backyard life. Digging and weeding, trimming and planting have always helped me settle inside. My intercessions float up from within as the manual labor helps me sweat out the frustrations. I need the balance of physical labor and reflection, housework and creative endeavor. Out of that balance, action arises. It’s sort of like a seed cracking open, and some unexpected plant springing forth.

            Over 25 years ago, when I first started studying Celtic Christianity, I ran across this simple prayer, offered in the outer Hebrides when a new moon was sighted:

            “The One who made thee, made me likewise.”

            The years’ long use of that prayer, springing up when I see a monarch or a fall aster or an unknown vine, has led me to “hear” that prayer internally in relationships with others. The prayer, formed and practiced in the garden, carries forth into the larger garden of human interaction. It doesn’t necessarily give me a program to solve the ills and violence of this world. It does remind me that everything comes from the divine Source that we name as Trinity, and everything—yes, everything—eventually returns to that Source.

            The butterfly’s life is short. An adult monarch lives about a maximum of six weeks. And then all of that beauty, all of that stunning ability to fly and float, expires. The natural world reminds me that life is short. The natural world points me, as the sacrament that it is, to the One in whom we live and move and have our being. And leads me to pray, “The One who made thee, made me likewise.”

The Greening Power of God

It truly feels like the Texas summer is in the rear view mirror. It was so long. So hot. Day after day of triple digit temperatures. August lasted a lifetime. And the garden began to get a bellyache from too much chlorinated water. Doug and I pulled up plants that were spent, particularly in the vegetable garden. My dear hardy herbs kept chugging along—rosemary, thyme, sage, oregano, Mexican mint marigold. They looked tired, as if they had run a marathon, which they had, in plant fashion.

Over 20 years ago, I planted an heirloom climbing rose by our back fence. It grew happily, and though thorny as all get out, it offered lovely red, red roses on a regular basis. We have kept it fairly healthy with organic fertilizer and regular trimming of dead canes. But in August, it looked as if it were dead. 

Then came Labor Day. It started raining. It has rained here in San Antonio almost every day since then—almost three weeks of rain, and close to a cumulative 14 inches here at the house. The trees stand taller. The rosemary is offering the lovely blue blossoms that draw the bees and butterflies. The Mexican mint marigold is starting to bud. 

And the heirloom climbing rose, to our surprise, started coming to life. New maroon leaves dot the canes. New branches are coming forth. The whole beloved plant is stirring with new life, and little rosebuds are beginning to form. The rose we thought was dead still has life. 

Here’s the odd thing: what kept us from cutting the rose down was sheer inertia. When it was 102 and those prickly canes seem to need cutting, it was easier to just ignore the task. Usually, we both sense that our time in the yard and gardens is contemplative—many invitations “to pay attention, be astonished and tell about it” (to quote Mary Oliver).

August was so hot, so dry, so endless that we succumbed to a kind of “noonday demon,” as the desert monastics would say. August was a lengthy time of feeling the sun beat upon our heads, the sweat bathe our bodies. The air was so thick with heat that we gave up on gardening. Inattention became the rule. We were hardly astonished. We were simply waiting, averting our eyes, longing for rain.

Gardeners do know (though we sometimes forget) that there’s so much going on under the soil. We can’t see it. We can see the effects of earthworms aerating, good bacteria breaking things down to nutritious components, little roots persisting even when the visible part of plant looks weary and parched. But that transformation is below ground. That transformation happens in the fertile darkness of the soil.

So it was with our dearly beloved rose. Once the rains started, the latent vitality stirred along even the older canes and branches. As the moisture was drawn up, new leaves were formed. Somehow, despite the appearance above ground, things were stirring. The rain helped the roots appropriate the organic fertilizer we had offered. And the shift in light as fall comes has given the climbing rose fewer hours in scorching heat.

Now, as the fall equinox approaches, the noonday demon has departed. The yard and the garden offer every imaginable shade of green, and some I am greeting for the first time. And there are new roses coming, red roses whose scent will remind us that all around us, “the greening power of God” (Hildegard of Bingen) is at work, right here in our own backyard. 

On Good Friday

AT THE FOOT OF THE CROSS

Good Friday, March 30, 2018

St. Mark’s Episcopal Church, San Antonio, Texas

 

Here we are, gathered together at the foot of the Cross, gathered as one branch of the whole human family. Throughout the world, this day Christians gaze at this Jesus who has been pierced. And we allow him to gaze back at us with love, with mercy, with gentle compassion, even as he dies. A deep silence begins to fall, a silence that will hold until Easter dawn.

            This year, our Holy Week began with two different feasts happening to fall on the same day: Palm Sunday, when we remember Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem, and the Feast of the Annunciation, which always falls on March 25, nine months before Christmas day. On Sunday, we were standing in a peculiar tension that tells us the truth in love. The gospel for Annunciation offers us the angel Gabriel saying to Mary, Jesus’ mother, “Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God. And now, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you will name him Jesus.” (Luke 1:30) The Passion Gospel we heard on Palm Sunday morning, and again just now, led us through the passages of betrayal, abandonment, trial and crucifixion.  Both feasts are true. Both give us guidance and hope, particularly as we gaze upon the cross.

            On the one hand, we recall that Annunciation moment of eternal glad tidings. On the other, the Palm Sunday liturgy carried us into the dusty streets of Jerusalem, following Jesus on a donkey, shouting hosanna, leading us to today, Good Friday.

            What’s to be afraid of? What would cause us to tremble? Did not the angels sing “Glory be to God on high, and peace to his people on earth?” Did not the shepherds come to kneel and adore that tiny baby?

            Yet here we are. At the foot of the cross, beholding Jesus crucified. Who could have foreseen, at the moment of the Annunciation, that we would end up moving from Bethlehem to this site of execution? Who could have guessed that what began with stars shining in the black velvet winter sky would lead to three crosses silhouetted against the hills?   

            Today we are in the company of John and Mary and Mary Magdalene  and Mary the wife of Clopas. With them, we watch and wait as Jesus dies.

            And we hear, if we are still, if we wait: Do not be afraid. We receive the gift of Jesus making all of us family in his life and in his love. He gives John and his mother Mary to each other. He gives his life that we may be knit together in one human family. He chooses this journey to Jerusalem that we might awaken from our sleep and remember that real love, true mercy, is always willing to offer life for others.

            Today, we behold this physical death on a cross. Father Curtis Almquist, a monk in the Episcopal order of the Society of Saint John the Evangelist, has remarked that Jesus died many deaths before this day. He experienced those diminishments that are always a part of life. He was misunderstood. He discovered that his family did not always support his vision.  He found himself summarily ushered out of places that would not receive his life giving words and actions. He was haunted and hunted by the actions of pompous and vicious politicians and religious authorities. And perhaps worst of all, at the end, he dies those deaths of watching his disciples fade away, of knowing that Peter will betray him, of wondering if anything he offered will bear fruit.

            As we gaze on the cross this day, we remember that the baby in the manger does indeed grow up, does live a life whose very existence is a direct challenge to powers and principalities. Jesus knew the heartache and deep distress of the deaths within life. He endured grief, and he lived with pain. This death on a cross is strangely congruent with Jesus’ choosing to walk the life of living the truth in love. He would not be king. He would not be the magician who fixes everything. He is vulnerable. He is real. He does indeed die.

            When God takes on our human life in Jesus, God lives that life from the inside out, from conception to birth to babyhood to adolescence to adulthood, and yes, to death. Once that baby is conceived, death is eventually going to follow. That’s the way of mortal life.

            How strange this journey of faith is. So full of juxtapositions that are the dream of the God who loves us and gives us life. So full of paradoxes—two things that seem to not be true at the same time.

            And yet. In a moment we will pray together: “We adore you O Christ and we bless you, because by your holy cross you have redeemed the world.”

            This journey takes us from womb to tomb, and beyond. The gospels tell us in so many ways that we are ever accompanied by the God who breathes us into being and receives us at the end. The gospels challenge and shatter our puny notions of God’s ability to bring life out of death, and hope out of despair.

            Irish theologian Padraig O’Tuama, who grew up in Belfast in Northern Ireland, and is well acquainted with political and religious violence, tells us that we need to be able, in the worst of circumstances, to say, “Hello to here.” Hello to what is right before us. Hello to the wrecked body of Jesus. Hello to the little band of four who behold his dying. Hello to the soldiers who cast lots, and who pierce his side. Hello to the awful sight of divine love dying.

            To call this Friday good is to say hello to here.

            The theologians of the early church beheld this cross and saw a new and different tree of life. One wrote, “The fruit of this tree is not death but life, not darkness, but light. This tree does not cast out of paradise, but opens the way for our return.”

            Despite the appearances, we are on the edge of the realms of glory.

 In Jesus, God is telling us: I am ever with you. There is no place where I am not. There is no horror in which my broken body is not present. There is no travail that I do not indwell. There is no estrangement, no alienation, no heartache that is beyond my love, my mercy, my compassion, my indwelling, my healing.

            We sit with the cross. And we wait, allowing the angel’s strange and eternal, “Do not be afraid,” to speak unto our own sufferings, our own deaths. We exhale, and we breathe in a hope rooted and grounded in love. We allow our bodies to receive this gift: Jesus tells us in his dying that sacrificial love is the way of life.

            Hello to here. Hello to our own lives, and to our fractious and violent times. Hello to the many ways in which the living Christ says to us, “This is my gift to you. My own peace I leave with you.”

Seeing Anew

Several years ago, during a regular eye exam, my doctor mentioned to me that my cataracts were growing pretty quickly. While I heard what he was saying, I was in no mood to schedule an elective surgery. And while I could tell I was losing some depth perception, in general I did not think my vision was that compromised.

That doctor retired, and my husband and I began seeing Dr. John Campagna here in San Antonio. The first time he looked at my eyes, about a year and a half ago, he said, “You know, these cataracts could come out any time.” I sort of yelped, and said, “No!” He kindly smiled and said, “Well, you will know when the time is right.”

Last June, Doug and I were having lunch at Teka Molino, a favorite Mexican restaurant. I was facing the windows, and the sunlight was creating a glare. A friend approached us, and when he said hello, I had to confess that I could not see him. I knew my cataracts were getting in the way. I had not recognized him in the bright glare. This friend had just had cataract surgery, and encouraged us to do the same. His euphoria was contagious.

Over the last several months, both Doug and I have had both eyes set free from cataracts. The surgery was so easy, and the staff at Methodist North Central Ambulatory Care Center proved to be both professional and personable.

Now I am seeing through new lenses—not glasses—lenses implanted in my eyes. I am astounded by the radiance that I now perceive. So much luminescence! So much beauty! Colors and textures have a depth and a richness that I’d long forgotten. I have a lot of peripheral vision again, and catch glimmers of movement off to the side, glimmers that I would have missed before the surgeries.

And, we did not have to have our white kitchen repainted! I had thought that the paint had yellowed quickly. The kitchen had been painted only two years ago, and I had been fussing about the quality of the paint. How could it already have gotten so dingy? Two cataract surgeries later, and I know that I was looking through the yucky yellow grey of the cataract. Now the kitchen looks bright and shiny—no painting necessary.

I’m giving humble and hearty thanks for modern medicine, and for our physicians. We are the beneficiaries of so much research, and so much technical skill on the part of those who measure the eye, create the lenses, prepare the eye drops that facilitate the healing.

I’m also reflecting on the ways in which my sight may have dulled in other ways. What might I have missed because of some cataract-like tissue on the soul? A gentle nudge toward awareness. A kind invitation to be mindful of my limitations in every regard.

More than anything, I’m enjoying the feast of truly being able to see, and beholding the garden, the border collies, the fat cat, Doug, the household, with delight in seeing them all anew.

Slow Summer Time

  Thank God, we are now in what is known as “ordinary time” in the liturgical cycle of Christian faith and practice. We just observed Trinity Sunday on June 11. For the next six months, our Episcopal altars will be draped in green, and we will reflect on ordinary, daily living of life, a life of faith, hope and love. A life that chooses to be alive, aware of the beauty of this world.

    For this household, early summer means moving from active gardening to harvesting. Doug is bringing in bowls of bright yellow Sungold tomatoes and Ichiban eggplant. We weed a bit, and water as needed. We are also pulling up the plants that are suffering from the heat. But mostly, we are savoring the fruits of the garden, breathing in the heady aromas of copper canyon daisy and rosemary and oregano. The hot weather flowers (cosmos, hibiscus, bouganvilla, rock rose, salvia, lantana, Pride of Barbados) are bursting with color. Summer mornings and evenings, when the southeast wind comes off the Gulf of Mexico, the air has a distinctive softness.

    When I was growing up, many weekends were spent at my Kopecky grandparents’ place in the country. There was no running water, no indoor toilet. It was almost like camping, but not quite, because we slept in beds in simple cabins. Summer days were a feast of the senses. Simple peanut butter and onion sandwiches made by my grandmother. Swimming in the creek. Catching perch and striped bass with a cane fishing pole. Watching turkey vultures circle overhead in the deep blue vault of the Texas sky. Reading Marvel comics during quiet time in the heat of the afternoon.

    Time slowed down. Time became oriented toward natural rhythms, rather than the clock. We stayed up later and caught fireflies, listened to stories with whippoorwills calling in the background.

    As the liturgical calendar leads us into the slow time of June and July, before the planning activities of mid-August, even our beloved animal companions move into more relaxed patterns. Leftovers, our 22 pound cat, lolls in the grass or on the deck. He appears to be completely enjoying the balmy, warm mornings. Graford and Fiona, the border collies, choose to chase the tennis ball, but for half the time. Good naps on the cool Saltillo tile make up the bulk of their days.

    And the humans? We are savoring siesta. Eating vegetables still warm from the sun. Reading and going to movies. Slowing and remembering, entering the reverie of remembered times on the Guadalupe River and Canyon Lake, noticing our own deep craving for time that opens out, time that is easy, time that is no time.

Celebrating the 40th Anniversary of Ordination of Women in the Episcopal Church

On Sunday, January 22, 2017, seven women priests gathered to co-celebrate at the altar at the Episcopal Church of Reconciliation in San Antonio, Texas to commemorate the 40th anniversary of the ordination of women in the Episcopal Church. What a glorious and joy-filled eucharist!

This is the congregation that sponsored both my husband Doug and me in the process to become priests in the Episcopal Church. (Because we were the first clergy couple in the diocese, I was also required to have a second congregation sponsor me, Trinity Episcopal Church in Victoria, TX.) The gathering was baptized by tears of joy and wonder. We remembered the Philadelphia Eleven, and the bishops who ordained those first women despite threats to the bishops’ lives. We beheld the faces of the Rev. Katy Riggs, first woman ordained in the Episcopal Diocese of West Texas and women clergy who had served at Reconciliation in various capacities.

And we delighted in the celebration of so many strong women lay leaders in that parish. Those spiritual mothers were crucial to my own journey. Women like Abbie McLennan and Stella Brown, Betty Storrs and Saradell Crawford. These were women who never blanched at the thought of clergy couple, and who fully embraced the possibility of women presiding at the eucharist, preaching and blessing.

When Doug and I arrived at Reconciliation in the summer of 1979, it was Abbie McLennan who immediately spotted us during worship, then later introduced us to other members and made us welcome.

I was 31 at the time; our sons Jason and Bryan were 3 and 6.  I was teaching Spanish at the University of Texas at San Antonio. I was in the beginning steps of what I later realized was a path into contemplative prayer. Some of the spiritual mothers at Reconciliation knew of this improbable call of mine to holy orders. And so, they began to bring it up. They claimed it for me before I could fully claim it for myself.

And here's the amazing thing: while our dear bishop and the archdeacon and the members of the Standing Committee and Commission on Ministry were all sort of baffled by the idea of a clergy couple, these spiritual mothers at Reconciliation never faltered. They could SEE it. They knew it was possible. They held a vision that Doug and I could never have held by ourselves.

One day, after Doug had been accepted to seminary and I was going to be working as the parish secretary at St. George's in Austin (after teaching at UTSA), Betty Trail, (one of those beloved mothers) and I were in the sanctuary together, oiling pews. Betty was an RN, a divorcee, and pretty outspoken. She was instrumental in getting Reconciliation involved in early hunger ministries and the Battered Women's Shelter. Betty turned to me, and said like a prophet, "You will become a priest. I know this. And I can imagine that day!" She said this with a twinkle--a little like a fairy godmother. And then she went back to oiling the pews. I was stunned. From time to time another spiritual mother would either send me a card or say something in person. They began speaking my priestly vocation into being out loud, unapologetically, when I was still scared of saying it for myself.

On the institutional side of things, it is certainly true that professors at the Seminary of the Southwest, our bishop and other male clergy shepherded my process toward ordination. On the maternal, feisty, hopeful side of things it was Betty Trail and other spiritual mothers of mine who held the hope, when I figured I'd be teaching the Spanish subjunctive for the rest of my life. It just goes to show how significant community is, and how we are all woven together. 

Many of those spiritual mothers of the parish are now among the community of saints. On Sunday, as six of women clergy stood beside the Rev. Judith Rhodes as she presided at eucharist, I felt their presence and joy so strongly. It simply took my breath away. As living members of the Body of Christ, they have helped birth new life, and dared to believe the gospel includes us all—every single one of us. They delight in our ongoing embodiment of the dignity of every human being.

Reconciling with Mortality

I have an article, "Reconciling with Mortality," in the brand new edition of Reflections (a spirituality journal offered by the Episcopal Diocese of West Texas). Here is the link to the magazine, where you can find my article, as well as other fine offerings.

https://issuu.com/communicationsofficerdwtx/docs/reflections_fall_winter_2016_final_