Transitioning

The clock chimes its midnight number, though it is only ten.

Down the hill, trucks barrel down the highway – too loud, with their engine breaks hollering.

A baby whimpers, and a plane flies low overhead.

Then, in the briefest of silences, an owl sings out its lone ‘Hooo, hoo, hoo, hoo.’

In between the carefully worded emails and the anxious tears, there were Oreos.

They did nothing to pacify the soul, but did they stave off the tears for just a few moments?

Noises, all day long, leave little space for the soul to hear its own echo.

An echo to soothe like an infant hearing its mother’s heartbeat, ‘Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.’

The owl, again, through the static.

The soul, again, through the breath.

52 Days Is Nothing

While Justin’s been away, I’ve done a bit of writing.  Each little piece I start begins by naming how many days we’ve been apart.

Today would read like this:

Day 52 – 20 August 2015

Yes, this is by far the longest we’ve spent apart.  Some weeks have felt like they have stretched forever, punctuated by occasion spells of deeply feeling our separation; other weeks have flown by, and while the sense of missing Justin is still there, it hasn’t seeped into my core.

But 52 days really isn’t that long.  Not when I hear the stories of so many around the world whose families are split by war, fear, economic poverty, persecution…with no guarantee of being together again.

Here in London, we have been hearing all summer about the plight of migrants in Calais, France, who try most anything to cross the English Channel to perceived freedom and a chance to simply survive in the UK.  We’ve also been hearing about the persons crossing the few kilometers by sea between Turkey and Greek isles, hoping to enter the Euro Zone.  We live with ex-Australians who often talk about the way current politics in Australia have turned tightly against people coming into that country.  And, of course, I am very sensitive to the stories of the Mexico/U.S.A. border, knowing full well there is a myriad of socio-political issues that drive people to risk their lives to cross over some measly false border between groups of humans.

So, I must ask myself:  What is 52 days apart, knowing that Justin will return to London, answering easily the questions posed by the Border Agency at Heathrow?  What is 52 days when we’ve had the privilege to live abroad, as immigrants of a sort, though certainly not refugees?  The system of getting visas was daunting, but no where near the experience of a friend whose fiancé has to go for several interviews, have medical tests, provide all sorts of documentation, etc. 

Christ of Marynoll by Robert Lentz

Meanwhile, the rhetoric of many of these nations (US, UK, some EU) is deplorable from a variety of standpoints, and frightfully dismissive of how we have been implicit in the suffering of many.  We have crafted trade deals which benefit the rich and steal from the poor.  We have sold weapons to oppressive regimes, turned our backs on the people we’ve sold the weapons to, but then also turned our backs on those hurt in the conflicts.  We’ve built walls, 8 meters high, because that is our perceived notion of how far one person is willing to climb.  The poor will die in the desert, the marginalized will die from violence, and the boxed-in will die scratching their limbs against the walls.  They are martyrs for the cause of their dignity.

Thank God Jesus wasn’t born in a time when refugees faced such obstacles.  Joseph, Mary, and Jesus probably wouldn’t have made it Egypt in the first place, or back to Jerusalem, for Jesus, in the last place.

Whatever you have done to the least of these, you have done unto me.

I will wait in my privilege, knowing Justin will return.  I get to see my husband again, and we get to continue our privileged life together.

The long separate

Today I am settling into a few days at the Northumbria Community in northern England for a course called ‘Singing the Lord’s Song in a Rural Land.’  Today is also the day that begins a summer’s long sojourn without my partner in crime, Justin.  This will likely be the longest stretch apart that we have gone since we’ve been married…actually, since we started dating a mere seven-and-a-half years ago.  (To be fair, this is not the furthest apart we’ve been – two weeks after our wedding, I hopped a plane for South Africa for a couple weeks while Justin stayed in Pennsylvania.)

Our lives here have been very entwined, much more so than the years leading up to our work in London.  For one, we essentially share a job description.  We end up at many meetings together, going to the same events, and generally collaborating on much of our work.  For another, we share a bedroom which doubles (triples?) as our living space, our office, and our storage area.  We spend an awful lot of time together in our room.

We have – painfully, at times – learned to give up a lot of independence to be in London.   We’ve given up having our own ‘physical’ spaces which has also meant adapting to how that affects us getting our ‘emotional’ space.

So, what will it mean to be apart for such a long time, after such an intense two-and-a-half years?  It almost seems like an opportunity to see what blooms – like the flower of a cactus springing forth when you least expect it…or, at least, when you haven’t tried to bring a flower forth.

Beauty: A reflection from Justin

Justin kindly is sharing this reflection he wrote last week.

Beauty - 19 June 2015

I’ve never much liked roses; I suppose I always thought of them as too old-fashioned, too over-engineered, or too susceptible to disease. But after spending the briefest of moments in the sprawling Rose garden at Kew, I am converted.

Not expecting much, I began my foray into the rather informal parterre, passing boisterous bushes spilling over their neatly kept grass edges. Skirting the ogling tourists—their hard-working cameras in full use—I turned northwards only to be abruptly (rudely?) stopped in my tracks by a pink rose bush – pink! The lushness, the gentle sweetness, the generosity of its scent! The tag read ‘Rosa Gertrude Jekyll,’ ostensibly a variety bred by the famous 20th century English gardener.

Still, admittedly, I am not overly much a fan of the shape of a rose bush, or many of its over-stuffed flower forms. Still, perhaps it is best smelled but not seen, as it were. But I was struck, so unexpectedly, by its beauty, in a way I could not have conceived only yesterday.

As I sit, now, only a hundred yards away from the spot of this epiphany, this metanoia, this tiny intervention—or l’avenir, as a certain French philosopher might say—that broke into my inner world, my experience of existence, under the shade of a giant Swamp Cypress (Taxodium distichum)—it must be at least one hundred years old—looking back towards the Palm House, I am thinking about beauty. Today I found beauty in a most unexpected place. Or perhaps, I should say, beauty found me—because I was not particularly looking, or open, to seeing (or smelling) it until Gertrude Jekyll launched herself into my world.

It’s funny how our minds work. Last week I learned that my mum has a rare and aggressive form of cancer. Here I am, waiting two weeks, half a world away, helpless, useless to her, and all I can think about is beauty: its diversity, its subjectivity, its power and its weakness, its importance to each of us in this mysterious journey of life.

Earlier, walking through the kitchen garden, I noticed many of the espaliered apple trees with their outermost leaves curled and shriveled, not unlike our cherry tree at home. Upon closer inspection, I found them swarmed with ants, lapping up the sweet, gooey substance released by the aphids, serving as protectors in this symbiotic relationship. Meanwhile, on the neighboring apple step-overs, Lady Beatles are mating energetically, vigorously trying to restore balance to this garden ecosystem.

Beautiful. And what is a good gardener to do but watch and be amazed.

Prince Myshkin, in Fyodor Dostoevsky’s The Idiot, is noted for saying, “‘Beauty’ will save the world.” An acquaintance comments that perhaps Myshkin can only believe this frivolous idea because he is in love. Perhaps it is so. For Dostoevsky, Myshkin, the ‘idiot,’ is his fictional representation of the Christian saviour, Jesus, who taught his followers to love their enemies and respond to evil by doing good. Myshkin’s generosity towards others is seen as weakness and naivety in a culture falling in love with the promise of salvation through capital, industry, and waged labor.

I love my mum. In that deep, welling, overflowing kind of way that I’m not sure I understand—or can be understood. I know she is beautiful, as so many friends, co-workers, and family could attest. It seems this cancer is part of who she is now, in this moment. But I’m not sure I’m ready to see the beauty in that—or if I ever will.

My mum sees beauty in people, in nature, and probably—even now—in situations like this. It seems to me a measure of her character that she is aware of so much beauty—that such awareness is borne out of a love and openness to a diverse range of people and experiences.

Maybe what I’m getting around to—and what I am beginning to comprehend more fully—is that our capacity to recognize beauty is based on our capacity to love. And, in that sense, Prince Myshkin might be right: perhaps beauty will save the world.

But before that can happen, we must cultivate love—for ourselves, for our enemies, for this earth. And frankly, as I continue to sit under the aged Cypress—occasionally appreciating its scaly, flaking bark, or peering through is soft, green (almost chartreuse) foliage—I don’t hold out much hope for humanity on that score. I don’t expect that the world will be saved.

But for you? Me? Them? For that, I will hold out hope. Whether beauty—call it whatever godly name you will—can or will save the world … I don’t know. But it might be the only thing that can.

In the meantime, at moments like this, now—where the veil is thin, and reality feels a few grams more real—what is of real value rises to the surface. And it is not things, nor anything that we can possess, but these fleeting glimpses into the infinite; these moments of magnified stillness; these breakthroughs of beauty into our all-too tidy or broken lives.

Current Reads

There's a certain guilt, at times, when the weather is so glorious and one finds themselves sitting inside, reading. 

Ah, well.  Here are a few books I've been reading.


The Book of Uncommon Prayer

This gem is hot off the press from an author I've grown to appreciate the last couple years.  Annie Heppenstall has a gift for writing from a strong theological base, influenced by Celtic spirituality, and as a relevant witness in our post-modern world. 
I've only cracked this book, but already, I can't put it down. 

Last evening, I shared as part of a storytelling evening, and afterwards, the conversation got around to the observation that particularly in the Western world, authentic, deep connection with one another is happening increasingly rarely.  Perhaps in response, there is a surge in storytelling events, in part because some are dissatisfied with the lack of 'safe spaces' which act as bridges between separate groups and people. 

I bring storytelling into this book 'review' because storytelling recognizes that each person has a unique journey, which is of equal worth to everyone else's.  Heppenstall takes great care in this book to create liturgies and prayers which seek to bring a broader perspective on how we express our worship of the Divine.  She aims to create resources which can be used to include a wide range of experiences, a wide range of expressions of faith and spirituality, and a wide range of language.

The Quarreling Book...
I list this book, not because it's informing my life in a particular way, but as an example of a story that demonstrates (in an elementary way) the 'butterfly effect' of both hurtful words and words said in love.  

We got this book to use as part of an all-age service on peacemaking (though, admittedly, it showed up a day late, so we didn't use it...)  Our church doesn't have a strong tradition of using books to introduce themes to children,  and I think that means that the children's attention is often lost quite quickly.  Stories with pictures help more people (yes, adults, too!) get into the day's topic, and that is a top priority for me as I plan worship services.  

And, to be honest, this book shows its age (pub. 1963)  in the plot it uses to get the message across.  But, the message is worth it.

Herbal Tea Gardens
This book showcases a wide variety of plants that can be used for blending herbs for hot and cold drinks, with examples of how one might make a garden plot to address certain health needs.  It's packed with information on particular herbs, their desired growing conditions, instructions on preserving the various parts of the plants used, and more.  It's definitely an all-in-one kind of book. 

As Justin and I start to think about 'what's next' on the horizon, we are each delving into different ideas for how to develop and use our gifts in a new location.  As I've mentioned previously, I've been inspired by the work of Rev. Becca Stevens and Thistle Farms, whom I first encountered at last year's Greenbelt Festival here in the UK.  Rev. Stevens wrote in her most recent book about Thistle Farm's use of tea in their café, and how much of tea's history is complicated by colonialism, and the work done in deplorable, capitalist-driven conditions.

So, one idea I've been thinking about is what it might mean to develop a social enterprise or cooperative around growing and marketing herbal teas (or herbs for culinary uses or...).  Could growing and selling tea be an opportunity to treat the earth well, treat workers well, and respect the bodies and spirits of those consuming?  

This is just one idea, amongst several other.  Any and all ideas will need a bit of community support, community vision, and a community that values one another and the earth.

Psalms for East London

Inspired by Psalm 133...CPURC writes our own ideas of what unity looks like.

How very good and pleasant it is when brothers and sisters live together in unity!

It is like:

...Making daisy chains on a sunny spring day

...Sides splitting with laughter

...Dancing on top of a grassy hill under the warm sun

...The sun shining, the thunder exciting, everyone dancing in the rain barefoot!

...Preparing for a party, everyone excited, doing their bits and looking forward with positive anticipation to the BIG PARTY

...The weather: sunny, raining, thunders you never quite know what is going to happen

...When you are with your family you feel happy and joyful, peaceful and content.  And you really don't mind having to wait to use the bathroom, however desperate you are!

...Two peas in a pod!

...A good glass of wine on a sunny evening

...Swimming with coloured fish around a coral reef

...The shared smile between two strangers on the tube who realise that they are reading the same book

...Like cuddling under a blanket at a slumber party watching a movie

Lining up to write our ideas!

Prayer

Some of my first memories of praying by myself largely revolve around my early fears of what lurked in the darkness.  When I was younger, I was terrified of pure darkness, needing a night light until I was probably nearly 10.  (My brother would confirm this – once, when sharing his room because a guest was in mine, he was so disgusted by my need of a light in the room that he insisted that the main bedroom light was going to be left on all night.  Pretty sure my parents turned off the light once we were asleep, but the preceding fight has stuck with me…)

I was so afraid for a time of what might be under my bed or in my closets that I would only lay on my back, so no one (or nothing) could sneak up on me without me noticing.  I had plans, too, for a small hidey-hole in the wall (as I had a false sense of how thick walls between bedrooms were) that I could crawl into in case an intruder got into our house.

I was afraid of our house catching fire, of people lurking at the bottom of the stairs, of someone stabbing me in the back (because I was laying on my stomach).  And I was afraid of these things every night.

But, obviously, something had to give.

At some point, I remember convincing myself to try sleeping on my stomach.  And the praying began.

I prayed that God would give me the confidence to sleep the way I wanted to, and that I would trust God to keep me safe.  And that if it was my time to go (because someone had stabbed me), God would take me to heaven.  I prayed that if the house did catch on fire, that the smoke alarms would go off and I would wake up.  I prayed away the devils hiding in the closet, and replaced them with guardian angels hovering in the four corners of the room. 

At some point, I asked my parents to turn off the night light in my room when they came to bed at night, to train me to sleep without it (though, I still needed it to actually fall asleep.)  I gradually went downstairs enough during the night for a drink to prove that there was no one waiting on the landing to grab me.

And then, I started loving nighttime.  It’s when I prayed most, particularly as a child and teenager.  I’ve always had a hard time falling asleep (see why above!), so here was time magically set aside to let go of things.  I visualized boxing up my worries and sending them off to God, cutting any strings that wanted to stay attached to my wrist.

The habit of praying before sleep comes and goes these days, dependent often on our living situation and the opportunity for “alone time.”  But prayer remains a go-to solution for figuring my way through fears, practicing letting go of worries, and preparing my soul for rest.  Prayer is a therapy with unknowable blessings and consequences, but it seems a natural part of life – a place for quiet, for questions, for breaking down, and for getting on with things.

So be it.