Am I ready?

We are here to witness the creation and abet it. We are here to notice each thing so each thing gets noticed. Together we notice not only each mountain shadow and each stone on the beach but, especially, we notice the beautiful faces and complex natures of each other. We are here to bring to consciousness the beauty and power that are around us and to praise the people who are here with us. We witness our generation and our times. We watch the weather. Otherwise, creation would be playing to an empty house.

According to the second law of thermodynamics, things fall apart. Structures disintegrate. Buckminster Fuller hinted at a reason we are here: By creating things, by thinking up new combinations, we counteract this flow of entropy. We make new structures, new wholeness, so the universe comes out even. A shepherd on a hilltop who looks at a mess of stars and thinks, ‘There’s a hunter, a plow, a fish,’ is making mental connections that have as much real force in the universe as the very fires in those stars themselves...Annie Dillard, with thanks to David Lose.

.Am I ready? If you wonder whether my bags are packed and the house is cleaned and have I dealt with all my anxieties...well, pretty much. I'm realistic. There is undoubtedly too much of one thing and not enough of another. I do want my ducks in a row. And it is a sure thing one of them will be waddling out of line.

But what does it take to be ready? I mean, isn't 'ready' a state of mind? A willingness to be present to what pops up in front of us? Is it something we can go looking for?

Actually, I've not planned as much as I usually do. I'll have five weeks in Florence, so what is really important to me is the open time, the wandering time, the paying-attention time. In my application for the grant I kept coming back to the line from Eliot's "Little Gidding," "You are not here to verify,
                                                                              Instruct yourself, or inform curiosity
                                                                              Or carry report. You are here to kneel
                                                                               where prayer has been valid."

I know I'll have to keep reminding myself that this time I'm not a tourist (though of course I'm a tourist! We are all tourists except for where we live.) but a pilgrim. I chose Florence because it is the birthplace of the Renaissance and because of all the art. And needless to say, we'll spend plenty of time in the museums and churches, but I'm going to be looking for what is off the beaten path, for what is not reproduced on post cards. And I'm going to be looking with my journal, my blog, and my camera.

I love what Dillard says about creation playing to an empty house. I'm not going to Florence to absorb it as much as to converse with it. I'm sure Florence will go on unscathed by my presence, but I have something to bring to it as well, years and experience and my own quirky way of seeing things. And the blog is my way of bringing you into the conversation as well.  We are all creators and co-creators. I'm so eager to be open to this incredible experience. So the answer is yes, I'm ready.

The Water Between Here and There

It was rush hour, and either of my alternatives was going to take some time. I landed in Seattle and needed to get to the Olympic Peninsula. I could have taken the puddle jumper to Port Angeles, but for some reason I like to take my time getting there, and more flying is not taking my time. My first spiritual director said that it takes our souls a full day to catch up with every time zone we cross when we fly. I needed some ground time...or water time. I needed some soul time.

My son and his family moved to Port Angeles eleven years ago, and by now I do not know how many trips I've made. If we are counting time spent with his family the answer is not enough. In addition to visits to them, we have also spent time in the San Juan Islands, on Vancouver Island, and sailing in the Straits of Juan de Fuca. I've grown to love the area.

There is something sacred for me in riding the ferries. I understand that for most people they are simply functional. And most of those people sit in their cars, maybe even work in their cars or talk on their cell phones or check Facebook or play Bejewelled to pass the time. Maybe you need to be from somewhere else, somewhere hot and dry, to experience the ferries as mystical, but I get out of my car as quick as I can and get the best seat I can to watch from the window for something magical to appear. And water is magic enough for me, so the seals who watch and the birds and the point of Mount Rainier are all added blessings. And the time is blessing, a pause between here and there, between one highway and the next, to look and wait and take the time it takes. 

Happy birthday, Mary Oliver

Thirst

Another morning and I wake with thirst for the goodness I do not have.
I walk out to the pond and all the way God has given us such beautiful lessons.
Oh Lord, I was never a quick scholar
but sulked and hunched over my books past the hour and the bell;
grant me, in your mercy, a little more time.
Love for the earth and love for you are having such a long conversation in my heart.
Who knows what will finally happen or where I will be sent,
yet already I have given a great many things away,
expecting to be told to pack nothing,
except the prayers which, with this thirst, I am slowly learning.

Report from Day Five

I’ve spent much of my sabbatical so far in my study, which is very much a work in progress. The timing of our renovation, which seemed so wrong, I think has turned out to be so right. What was disassembled is becoming reassembled, and to believe that this could happen without disorder was a delusion.

I had a complete meltdown one night when it became evident that the delay in construction on the new kitchen – which has resulted in chaos in the whole house – was going to eat into my sabbatical. I was resentful that this very special time was going to turn into a time of work. That I’d be forced to stay home to meet the sub-floorers (who have not shown up, by the way) rather than roam free with my creative self. And that preparing meals, which is one thing I truly enjoy, would be a chore rather than a delight. Well, it is a chore when all you have is a laundry room sink, a microwave, and a grill. But it is also an invitation to a different sort of creativity.

So, once I realized that I was the only one who could make my sabbatical crummy by bringing resentment into it, I got over it and decided to go with the flow. Meaning, as long as we are renovating the kitchen, let’s do my study as well. The painters came and made the walls a ceiling the palest butter yellow, and the carpet people came and put down sea grass that smelled at first like a summer barn. All this was preceded by movers (the same ones who moved us out of the kitchen) carrying about twenty boxes of books down the crooked staircase. I’d already been carrying grocery sacks of books down to the cove in our bedroom for months.

The study was now empty until my new desk arrived. The desk  is white and fits into the corner under the window, where I see the tip of one oak tree and blue, blue sky. Now my work began, but it has been creative work. I’m not taking time to count the books. But the box on the breakfast room table that is filling with more give-away books is #12 that will not return to my bookcases.

I’ve learned something about myself in this, as I’m not letting one thing back in my study that I don’t want to be here. Not one thing that doesn’t feed me in one way or another. I’ve given a new seminarian all my hard-core theology books. Not that I didn’t like them. I took every theology course offered when I was in seminary and relished the brain-knotting process of attempting to articulate what is ultimately ineffable. But as I packed them up I realized that after all these years of ministry I am accepting authority for what I say about God.  I no longer need to look it up in books. I haven’t opened those books in years, so let someone else enjoy them.

Here is what I kept. These are the books I lovingly placed in organized shelves mostly in alphabetical order by author. 

Beginning at my right hand and going clockwise around the room. In a scarred brown wood bookcase that is dear to my heart because one day in the 1950’s it arrived containing the Encyclopedia Britannica. On top of it, between two foo-dog bookends Clay gave me, are books I want to read during this sabbatical.  

Below that are my Bibles, Bible dictionary, hymnal, prayer books, and on the lower shelf all the issues of Image, the journal of theology and the arts. Above the title on the cover are the words Art+Faith+Mystery.  That pretty much articulates what I cherish and what fills my shelves.

In the next bookcase are all my commentaries, neatly arranged by collection. Below them you’ll find the Jungian books, devotionals, and a series of books in which literary writers deal with scripture. I really like those books.

Next bookcase: top shelf is Jesus, second shelf New Testament, third, Old Testament, bottom is pastoral care and congregational development. More of those books are at the church. When I looked at the wall of books in my office there I despaired of ever being able to retire because there will be no place to bring them home. Not that I’m thinking of retiring.

I kept two shelves worth of theology, stuff I will dive back into because I love it or, as in the case of Tillich’s three-volume systematic theology, because I read every single page several times over to attempt understanding and it is a badge of honor. Below theology are spiritual autobiographies.

Then a top shelf of a few favorite authors: John Claypool, Paula D’Arcy, Richard Rohr, Henri Nouwen, Alan Jones, Thomas Keating. And below that a shelf with books about science and religion and about world religions. Then begin the books of poetry and short stories, collections of literature and writing about faith and literature. It says something that there are four full shelves of these books. Downstairs is where most of my ‘reading’ books are, a library full and three floor-to-ceiling shelves in the bedroom. Then books on prayer and resource books for Advent and Lent. Next is the uppity women’s shelf – mediaeval mystics and their offspring. I like to think I belong on that shelf.

In the diagonal corner the entire shelf is taken up by books on preaching. Sermons and how to and why to and why not. 

And then to the immediate left of my desk there are three long shelves of books on spirituality. That’s it. More spirituality than anything else.

The process of cleaning and culling and arranging has given me a clear picture of what I cherish in this tiny little world that serves as the womb of my ministry in so many ways. The process of disassembling it and carefully reassembling it has offered me a liminal entry into my sabbatical. Where it was previously chaos and an ugly shade of aqua with nasty carpet, it is now a haven of peace with a sense of openness and invitation for time of meditation, reading, and writing.

And while we’re talking about creativity, what would you do if all you had was a laundry room sink, a microwave and a grill? Well, you’d have a dinner party, wouldn’t you? That’s what we did on Monday. We could have four guests because we have six chairs. The floor is covered with brown paper, but the table was set with yellow flowers in a blue and white pitcher, and we had a delicious meal with treasured friends. The dining room is a storage unit. The living room furniture is all pushed close in, but we could chat there and laugh at our surroundings. Arthur’s toys take up a lot of it, too.

But in the middle of the chaos we created our little Sabbath, and it was lovely. Dinner was good and the wine was good, but it was all about the people taking time to cherish each other and give thanks for all we do have, which is a great deal. We were all nourished and well blessed.

And it was evening, and it was morning, the first day

It was just about fifteen years ago today when I had butterflies over the first day of seminary. I was finally crossing a threshold that I'd been longing for for at least eight years, but really since a magical evening when I was five years old. I was letting go of a lot of old stuff and walking toward something I could not even begin to imagine, except that I knew that it was God's voice calling me forward.

I was more anxious and eager than I had ever been on the first day of school. As an adult, I believe I had more of an image of what might come of it and more of a sense of my limitations than when it was first grade or ninth grade or even college. It has been an amazing fifteen years, and I have been blessed more than I was ever able to imagine.

And now here I am on the first day of sabbatical. I've been given the gift of three months and an insanely generous grant to restore my focus and my energies. And I feel a bit like a gerbil whose wheel has been removed from the cage. The patterns of parish life have been my auto-pilot for so long that it is disconcerting not to reach for the black shirt -- they are all laundered and hanging in my closet not to be touched for 90 days -- not to pack a lunch and drive the familiar route to church, not to touch base with people I care about who are hurting or deciding or questioning or rejoicing. I won't know who will show up for church tomorrow or what the guest priest will preach about. I didn't used to think I had control issues, but I am humbled to admit that I do. I think one of the reasons God created sabbath and commanded us to practice periodical rest was precisely to remind us that our sense of control is an illusion. And to have a sense of the immenseness of God's blessings.

And so what did I do today? A lot of hanging out with people I care about. Fairly random errands but with a spaciousness about them that is not my custom. And some creating order out of chaos. That seems appropriate. My study is recently repainted and re-carpeted, which meant that every book -- maybe I'll count them, and you will be shocked -- and every stick of furniture had to be carried downstairs and dealt with. And brought back upstairs and placed with care where it belongs.

As of tonight all the boxes of books have been unpacked and so far there are eight boxes to be given away. I still have papers to deal with. Do I really keep twelve years worth of sermons? Who will ever look at them? I found two short stories and some poems I thought were lost forever. I'm excited about giving my youth minister, who is beginning seminary, a pretty amazing theological library and offering a pile of other books to any seminarian who is willing to pay a quarter apiece for them.

I'm feeling rested and exhausted as this day ends. There is some satisfaction. I'm not under the illusion that I can go cold turkey after fifteen years, but rather I'll ease into a different pace. If I go back to church in December unchanged by the experience I will have failed at it. I'm not quite there yet, but I'm wanting to hear what God has to say that is new and surprising. I'm looking forward to time with children and grandchildren, with friends, with my sister and husband in Italy and alone in Wales and then home again to what is going to feel like a new house -- the kitchen remodel should be finished by then. There are no words for the state of chaos now.

So I'm feeling a bit like Wile-E-Coyote stepping off the edge of the cliff, but I feel peaceful and hopeful and extremely grateful about it. And there is a little bit of me that says just let me got to St. Alban's in the morning and give everybody one more hug. Then I'll let go....