Ocean’s Pull: A Place Where Grace Flows

Ocean’s Pull: A Place Where Grace Flows

I long to be near the ocean. It stole my heart on our first encounter. A teenager, I was camping with my family through Massachusetts, the birthplace of my mother’s parents. She wanted to see where her family roots had been before they were pulled up and transplanted to Ohio.

My grandmother Becky lived with us and was my first introduction to Massachusetts. Bits of New England accent colored her speech until she died. I loved hearing her say “mirrah,” “drawah,” or “idear” and asked questions requiring an answer that included words ending in “er” or “ah” just to hear her say them.

Growing up in southwestern Massachusetts, she hadn’t lived by the sea, but earlier generations had, arriving on the northeastern shore before the Revolutionary War, joining the battles at Concord and Lexington. In my young mind, the east coast was a magical place, and photos of the Kennedys sailing or walking the beach on Cape Cod just added to the mystique.

Cape Ann, MA 1969

So I was thrilled when, one summer, our family contingent wended its way through western Massachusetts to Boston and places further north along the coast. It didn’t disappoint. From the moment I stepped over large rocks and experienced the presence of the ocean, I was smitten. “Why,” I wondered, “would anyone move from such a place to the Midwest?” They must have had their reasons, but at the moment, for the life of me, I couldn’t imagine what they might have been.

Over the years, I’ve made numerous trips up east and spent countless hours walking beaches on the Cape as well as up and down the coast. The pandemic put an end to a long string of birthday celebrations shared with my youngest daughter on a beach. How I miss walking the thin strip that’s neither ocean nor land but water and sand swirling together in some “both/and” space. Looking for sea glass. Listening to the rhythmic sounds of the water’s ebb and flow. Watching shore birds. Drawing in deep draughts of salty air that cleans and soothes lungs irritated by pollen and pollution at home.

A friend who appreciated my soul-ache for the sea sent me a book: The Outermost House: A Year of Life on the Great Beach of Cape Cod, by Henry Beston. I finished it last week. First published in 1928, it chronicles Beston’s year-long stay in a two-room cottage he had built on his dune-land property just south of the Eastham Life Saving Station on what is now called Coast Guard Beach.

Though not a trained scientist, he was a keen observer of nature, calling himself a “writer-naturalist.” In his book, Beston meticulously describes the sights, sounds, wildlife, weather, and events from walks along the beach to shipwrecks in a foaming sea, to the bravery of the coast guards from the Nauset lighthouse who patrolled the beach, ready to help anyone in need, to deliver a letter, or to stop in Beston’s cottage to warm up with a steaming cup of coffee.

From the first pages, I was hooked. Beston was a writer first, and as Robert Finch notes in the 1988 introduction, Beston “… preferred poetic impressions to scientific accuracy.” Perhaps that’s why I could close my eyes and “be there,” hearing the distinctive sounds made by waves in their various stages: the “great spilling crash” when they arrived, the “wild seething cataract roar” as the wave dissolved, “the rush of its foaming waters up the beach,” and the “foam-bubble hissing” as the wave dissolves and slides back toward the sea.

His description of the origin of waves was equally transporting. It’s not scientific, but who isn’t enchanted by thinking of the birth of waves somewhere far out in the middle of the ocean when “… the pulse beat of earth liberates a vibration, an ocean wave.” “Pulse beat of earth” reminds me of the captivating phrase, “heartbeat tones,” NASA used to describe the simple signals sent from Perseverance during its landing on Mars when more complicated communication was impossible—it just let them know “Percy” was “alive” and functioning.

The ancient values of dignity, beauty, and poetry which sustain it are of Nature’s inspiration; the are born of the mystery and beauty of the world.

Henry Beston, The Outermost House

Beston didn’t include as many personal reflections as some authors do when writing memoir. Many of his detailed descriptions stand alone, allowing the reader to experience the ocean in their own way and to reflect on deeper meanings stirred by the literary encounter.

I am no exception.  

He responded directly to friends wondering if he didn’t grow tired or “haunted” by the constant sound of the ocean’s roar, saying simply that he had “grown unconscious” of it, noticing only when he first woke or climbed into bed at night. Or made a conscious choice to stop and listen. Or “when some change in the nature of the sound breaks through my acceptance of it to my curiosity.”

I could imagine that. And it made me wonder what sounds or sights in my life are so constant that I don’t often notice them. What miracles do I take for granted every day? What can help me remember to “stop again to listen,” or to lift my heart to God in gratitude for the gift?

Beston commented that birds in flight look completely different than birds at rest and suggested that after observing birds on the ground, we clap our hands and send them flying. Again, his provocative prose had me wondering. What people, places, or activities make me feel more alive, more myself? What pulls from me the gifts that makes me more who I am made to be?

In describing mystic/poet Robert Lax, his biographer, Michael McGregor, said that Lax would encourage people to find a place where grace flowed and put themselves there often. Flight is what birds are made for. It’s where observers see them in their magnificence. Where is the place Grace flows most naturally for me? Can I put myself there? Often?

Again, responding to friends’ questions, Beston shared what he had learned of Nature from his Cape Cod year: “… one’s first appreciation is a sense that the creation is still going on, that the creative forces are as great and as active to-day as they ever have been … Creation is here and now.”

Sunset over the water, Cape Cod Massachusetts
Cape Cod

When I read those words, I slipped into quiet and wonder at the evolution of creation, of creatures, of humanity, of faith, of God. What does it mean that creation is ongoing, here and now? How comfortable am I with the lack of permanence and the transformation that is Incarnation?

I am longing for the sea. Its pull is always on my heart. Yet, with Beston’s book, I feel that in some way I have been there. And received Grace as if I had walked the thin space of earth/sea in my bare feet, wondered at the birds, breathed salty air, and huddled against the wind.

Seeing with Eyes of the Heart

Seeing with Eyes of the Heart

Sometimes life delivers a reminder of the Glory it holds, like this week while I meandered through a small park running along the west bank of the Scioto River. The park was empty except for a few walkers and two knots of birders gazing up into the trees. They carried a variety of cameras and binoculars, some with lenses long and heavy enough to require extra support. It was migration season. Non-resident birds and ducks were traveling through. I’m a casual bird watcher with a life-list begun decades ago where, if I remember, I check off a bird when I see it for the first time. My list is a record of what I’ve been graced to see, not a guide for what I have left to find.

“Hi. What are you looking at?” I asked good-naturedly, observing six feet of social distance.

“Nothing!” an irritated woman spat out. “Nothing! There is nothing to see here.”

I looked around at the surroundings, brimming with spring flowers and trees in various stages of leafing out. The river reflected the sun, and an occasional heron sailed by the white clouds.

“Really? Nothing? My sister and her husband saw a black -billed and a yellow-billed cuckoo here yesterday,” I said, trying to sound like I knew a little about the hobby. I was thinking “you just never know what will show up,” and thought I delivered the comment in a hopeful kind of way.

“Yesterday. Figures. The thing is, they were here yesterday. I wasn’t!”

No, she wasn’t. The problem, as I saw it, was that likely she wasn’t present in the morning’s moment either. Not really. Her experience was constricted by an agenda, and the park wasn’t delivering. I continued my walk, and despite the disgruntled woman’s claim that there was nothing worth seeing, I found plenty. Actually, her outburst, uncharacteristic of birders in general, heightened my openness to the surroundings.

First to catch my eye were dandelions, some sunny yellow and others holding delicate silver globes of parachuted seeds, waiting for a breeze to send them flying. They mingled with fuzzy, thick- stemmed plants sending up shoots topped with a clenched cluster of buds. I leaned in for a closer look. The spotted early earth-hugging leaves gave it way: waterleaf.

The scene reminded me of a pastel drawing at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston: “Dandelions,” by Jean-François Millet. His detailed drawings highlighted the flowers’ beauty and caught my attention immediately upon my entering the exhibit. “A kindred spirit,” I’d thought. I’m not an accomplished artist, but when I draw, I work small and focus on common treasures.

"Dandelions" a pastel on tan wove paper byJean-François Millet, French artist. Drawing of dandelions, yellow as well as gone to seed,
Dandelions, 1867-68
Pastel on tan wove paper
Jean-François Millet
Museum of Fine Arts, Boston

There were lots of other things to see in the park. Oak, sycamore, maple, locust, and hickory trees. White honeysuckle blooms wet with nectar. The small stream, last week singing with water splashing over its rocky bed, diminished by hot, dry days.

I followed the lichen covered stone wall reminiscent of those crisscrossing fields in New England and the Robert Frost poem that made them famous. In a patch of wildflowers and grasses left to grow wild, bluebells were fading and ground-hugging violets stole the show.

The path stopped at the river. Mallards were gliding past, and farther out, a ruddy duck disappeared under the water again and again. I stood a while, soaking in the scene and then turned to walk back to my car.

The birdwatchers were still gathered in the same place, but this time cameras were clicking.

“What’d you find?” I asked.

“A Blackburnian warbler,” a gentleman replied and guided my eyes upward to a small silhouette perched on slender tree-top branches. Lifting my binoculars, I found the bird, stunning with black, white, and orange markings. Closer to my car, a Baltimore oriole flamed bright on a tree branch. An embarrassment of riches.

I was reminded of my morning walk a few days later while reflecting on the feast of Pentecost by reading poetry of Jessica Powers (1905-1998) an American Carmelite nun. In “Ruah-Elohim,” she writes that “Spirit” in Hebrew is feminine and that the Holy Spirt is tender Love, come to mother us. In “To Live with the Spirit'” she reminds us that the one who walks as the Spirit-wind blows “turns like a wandering weather-vane toward love.”

But it was her description of the Apostles in “The First Pentecost” that caught my breath. They looked at one another. “…words curled in fire through the returning gloom. / Something had changed and colored all the room. / The beauty of the Galilean mother/ took the breath from them for a little space. / Even a cup, a chair or a brown dress/ could draw their tears with the great loveliness/ that wrote tremendous secrets every place….”

I ache to see with such Spirit-opened eyes, our world and one another. Could wars and hatred, violence and earth-abuse continue among human beings with eyes so wide and seeing? Would eyes of the heart see past the false constructs of “them” and “us” to the “we” that shared Spirit makes us? Ah, for such eyes!

Along with this tired planet, with the weary, war-torn beings that live on it, I join my voice to the urgent prayer:

Come, Spirit come! We need the sight you bring.

© 2021 Mary van Balen

A Contemplative Lent

A Contemplative Lent

While Lent is sometimes thought of as a season to give up something, this Lent comes after a year of pandemic and unrest that has many feeling like they’ve already given up a lot. For some it has meant no in-person visits with family or friends for close to a year. Some have lost jobs. Some suffered from serious cases of COVID-19 while others lost loved ones to the virus. Life has changed for just about everyone. The sense of loss is real.

While Zooming with a group of friends shortly before Ash Wednesday, one said she thought she’d have a “passive” Lent. Further conversation revealed she didn’t mean she would do nothing, but that she wasn’t going to pile on extra activities or give up anything particular. She simply was going to try to be open to receive grace offered in her ordinary routines.

That requires paying attention. “I know I’ve missed God’s Presence with me in the past,” she said, and thought she might make a list or keep a journal, reflecting on places and times in her life, recognizing God’s presence while looking back.

“Contemplative” might be a more accurate word to describe her approach to the season.

In his book The Dark Night of the Soul: A Psychiatrist Explores the Connection Between Darkness and Spiritual Growth, Gerald May wondered if John of the Cross’s much quoted sentence Contemplacion pura consite en recibir (often translated “Pure contemplation consists of receiving” – which sounds pretty passive) might be better understood if translated with what May considered a more accurate rendering of recibir – “Pure contemplation consists of welcoming with open arms!” (p 78).

I remember my Grandma Van Balen, who waited at the top of the steps, arms outstretched, when we arrived at her home for a visit. We scrambled up the staircase, wanting to be the first one she gathered up in her embrace and pulled onto her welcoming lap.

When someone showed up at my parents’ house, they stopped whatever they were doing and welcomed the visitor. After offering tea, coffee, or something to eat, they’d sit and visit, enjoying their company and listening to their stories.

Mr. Rogers was said to have been good at that. When he engaged with someone, he was so attentive that they felt as if they were the only person in the world. That’s deep listening. That’s receptivity. That’s openness at its best.  

Practicing such deep listening to the Holy Presence in our lives could be a fruitful way to observe Lent. We could ask ourselves “What gets in the way?” The tendency to multi-task through the day? Worry about the future? Regrets over the past? A hectic schedule? Pressing family responsibilities?

Sometimes much of what fills the day is beyond our control. Welcoming God “with arms open wide” might mean focusing on the person or task in front of us and trusting, with a lift in the heart, that God is in us and around us as we work as well as when we take some quiet, reflective time.

We can also remember that such openness to receive isn’t a one-way street. God is always welcoming us to share in Divine Life. But we forget. Then something – a moment, words, a song, a sight or sound or feeling reminds us that we indeed exist in God’s embrace.

Poet George Herbert (1593-1633) provides an image of this Divine hospitality in his poem, “Love (III).” In the first two stanzas the speaker, aware of his sin, draws back from the space into which Love invites him. He lists what makes him unworthy to be Love’s guest, but Love persists, wanting only to welcome and to serve. The poem ends:  You must sit down, says Love, and taste my meat./So I did sit and eat.

This Lent, instead of “giving up” or “adding on,” how about doing whatever it takes to open our heart-arms wide? Sit down at Love’s table and enjoy what is offered every moment of every day.  

©2021 Mary van Balen

Unless credited otherwise, photos by Mary van Balen

PHOTO: Kathryn Holt
A Morning Walk’s Prayer of Attention

A Morning Walk’s Prayer of Attention

green leaf glowing with sunlight
PHOTO: Mary van Balen

Sometimes my “church” is the outdoors. I take an early walk for exercise and to pray the prayer of attention and gratitude for whatever is given. Last week, I was two blocks from home when the morning sun shining through large, broad leaves of an old tree stopped me in my tracks. Some leaves caught the morning rays and glowed bright green against the deep shades of others hanging in the shadow, gleaming like illumined stained-glass windows in the dark stone interiors of medieval cathedrals.

Light streaming through the canopy of leaves into a small ravine was the next gift. Tucked between two homes, the space held trees, undergrowth, and scattered, pop-up choirs of resurrection lilies singing out praise with their glorious purple-pink blooms.

And so it went. But before long, I found myself distracted by walkers and runners, like me, out to enjoy the morning. Unlike me, not wearing masks. As we approached one another on the sidewalk, few made any effort to distance themselves. Time and again, I crossed the street to ensure safe distance. Irritation began to overshadow meditation.

I reclaimed my focus, intentionally moving it away from people and back to the moment, being attentive to the Sacred proclaimed by creation. Slowly, wisdom rose in my heart: gratitude for the beauty around me and awareness of the privilege that allowed me to walk in a neighborhood that offers such respite.

A deeper recognition stirred, one of being part of the greater Whole. Along with the tress and other growing things, I am part of a reflection of an unknowable Presence – unknowable, but with Grace, sometimes experienced.

The trees spoke to me of Presence that exists beyond, yet encompasses all time. The Mystery informs each moment and remains when the moment has passed.

I noticed old trees that have witnessed much and thought of ancient ones around the world that stood as wars have come and gone. Trees that have seen floods, droughts, and fires rage. That have outlasted plagues. Trees that have seen governments and empires, dictators and saints, come and go. The ancient ones that have watched economic booms and busts, seen hatred and the love that overcame it.

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

I remembered a quote by Thomas Merton:

“A tree gives glory to God first of all by being a tree. For in being what God means it to be, it is imitating an idea which is in God and which is not distinct from the essence of God, and therefore a tree imitates God by being a tree.”

Thomas Merton Seeds of Contemplation

What is true for the oldest of trees is true for the newly sprouted plant coming up between cracks in cement. It is true for the birds and squirrels that rustled leaves on trees and shrubs as they sought safety when I walked by. And it is true of me.

When I am authentically myself, I reflect the Divine within to the world without. Presence permeates all that is. That will never end.

When I am gone from the earth, well before the trees I passed, I will still “be” in some way or other. And along with the trees that will remain to calm some other earth-walkers in future decades, I will be a part of the Mystery.

These days are passing, but while I am here in this moment, it is important to share the Divine spark given to me. It is equally important to welcome the Presence, to sink into it, to melt into it and know peace in the reality that all things are part of the One Holy Mystery, now and always.

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

© 2020 Mary van Balen

 “Open your eyes, alert your spiritual ears, unlock your lips, and apply your heart, so that in all creation you may see, hear, praise, love and adore, magnify, and honor your God.”

St. Bonaventure Itinerarium

Perseverance, Faith, and Open Hearts

Perseverance, Faith, and Open Hearts

The account in Matthew’s gospel of the conversation between Jesus and a Canaanite woman asking him to cure her daughter provides insight into the transformational power of a genuine encounter with another.

Showing the determination and faith of a mother who was seeking help and the humanity of Jesus who was growing into a deeper understanding of himself and his mission, this story surprises.

One who encounters

Jesus often engaged with people like this woman who was dismissed as unimportant by others, including his disciples.

They didn’t want her hanging around and following them. She was a nuisance as far as they were concerned. To them, she was “other,” like the Samaritan woman at the well, marginalized because she was a woman and because she was a Gentile. They encouraged Jesus to send the troublemaker away.

But Jesus wasn’t about sending away. When crowds followed him, tired as he was, he took time to be with them, sometimes speaking, healing, or sharing food. No, Jesus wasn’t about turning his head when people came to him hurting and in need. He was all about seeing, paying attention, and listening deeply.

One who perseveres

The Canaanite woman was aware of his reputation as healer and an approachable one at that. Still, she needed courage to ask for help. She had to get by his disciples who were intent on protecting him and perhaps themselves from those who could cause problems or divert attention from what they thought was important.

She took the first step, finding and following them. When the time seemed right, she called out, respectfully asking for help, explaining that her daughter was tormented by a demon. After silence, Jesus’s initial response was dismissive: He was sent to the house of Israel, and she didn’t qualify.

Again, she honored him and pleaded for help. Jesus said, “No.” It wasn’t right to throw what was meant for the children of Israel to the dogs (a derogatory name sometimes used for Gentiles).

Despite his rebuke, she persisted. She had no special claim to his power other than being an anguished human speaking in behalf of someone unable to plead for herself. And she had faith that Jesus could help. That was enough.

She took a breath. Even dogs, she reminded Jesus, ate scraps from the table of their masters.

Jesus was listening. And when he looked, he saw her. He recognized her dignity as a child of God who held a spark of the Divine in her soul. He didn’t look past her or see her as his disciples did – an inconvenience.

He heard her pain. Emotionally engaged, he empathized and was moved. And he couldn’t miss the faith she had in him.

Transformation

Looking through her eyes, he saw something new about himself. (Isn’t this what happens when someone truly, deeply engages with another? They learn about themselves, their world, and their place in it.) Jesus wasn’t afraid of seeing something new. He wasn’t afraid to draw his circle even wider.

What he had to give he could give to all, couldn’t he? The One who sent him was limitless Love. There was no shortage to go around. For Jesus, there would be no “others.”

I think of John Lewis when I read about this woman and Jesus. As the late Representative and civil rights activist lived and advised, she “stood up and spoke out” when she saw something that was unjust.

She spoke the truth. Jesus listened and heard with an open heart. And it made all the difference. He healed her daughter and in doing so, the anguished mother’s heart. She healed him of a blind spot, urging him to grow into who he was.

Open hearts

Pray for such grace and courage.

John Lewis’s life witnessed the power of speaking the truth with love, of being willing to suffer for it, and of persevering. His training and belief in non-violence as the path toward change didn’t waver. In interviews he said his heart had no room for bitterness or hate.

Pray for the grace and wisdom to engage in conversations with such an open, humble heart. Listening without an agenda that prompts a quick defensive response or turning away is challenging whatever the situation. But such encounters will help move this country toward healing and becoming a more just society.

© 2020 Mary van Balen

Sunday Prayer: A Mindful Loaf

Sunday Prayer: A Mindful Loaf

Sunday, I decided, was the perfect day to use some of my precious yeast and flour to make a single loaf of bread – the day Christians set aside to gather and remember God’s great gift of self, given and shared with all creation. Baking would be my prayer.

Bread baking ingredients sitting on a kitchen counter: olive oil, bag of whole wheat flour, honey, salt, measuring spoon with yeast, a beeswax vigil candle burning.My old Tassajara Bread book’s cover is stained and bent, but its respect for the ingredients and the nourishment of body and spirit as well as its slow, mindful approach was perfect for my prayer – of course it would be. The book’s author was a young Zen student, later Zen priest, at the Tassajara Zen Mountain Center, Edward Espe Brown.

Strains of Holst’s The Planets filled my little kitchen with a sense of the cosmos and my small place in it. I gathered the ingredients and, lighting a beeswax candle, took a few quiet moments to remember that, as always, I was in the presence of the Holy One whose Love and Breath is the Source of all that is. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Begin.

The first step was making the sponge – something Tassajara introduced into my vocabulary. This stage gives yeast time to grow, uninhibited by the salt added later. As the sponge rises, gluten is formed; that makes kneading easier. I poured warm water into a large bowl. Sprinkling yeast on the water, I marveled at the tiny grains that would come to life and make my bread rise. Simply by being itself, the yeast would move a pound or two of heavy, dense dough.

May I be myself, moving the world forward ever so slightly, by giving the gifts and Love entrusted to me to share.

a mixing bowl covered with a damp dishtowel with colorful illustrations of New England Seashells all over itI stirred in a little honey to give the yeast something to feed on, added flour, mixed, and then set it aside to rise for an hour, covering the bowl with a damp towel—carefully chosen—printed with illustrations of shells found along New England beaches. I remembered rhythmic sounds of ocean waves, smells of salty air, the variety of sea creatures, all mingled with my awareness of vast cosmic space. My small kitchen was becoming spacious.

There are times in our lives that are “sponge-times,” blessedly free of experiences that hinder growth. They are respites and retreats. They are moments or hours or days.

I am grateful for the sponge-times that bless my life, from childhood to this uncertain moment of pandemic;  for the people and places and books and words and music and art and night skies and all things that have been doors of such grace for me.

ball of bread dough in bottom of mixing bowl with wooden spoonNext came the folding-in. With gentle, around-the-bowl-and-toward-the-center motion of the wooden spoon, I blended in salt and oil, careful not to tear the tender dough. I folded in more flour until it held together, a ball in the middle of the bowl.

Oh, that we may hold together, this world of people, in these times.

I didn’t use the mixer, but kneaded by hand on the countertop. I felt the dough becoming supple, stretching, not tearing. The gluten was forming, ready to capture bubbles of carbon dioxide made as the yeast grew. Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty, passed.

Can I stretch, not break, when life pushes and pulls in different directions?  

Next, more time to rise in the warmed oven. Time to wash dishes, clean the countertop, and put the canister of flour and bottle of oil away. I closed my eyes and listened to the music. I remembered walking on beaches and finding shells and an occasional piece of sea glass.

Lying on the couch, I put my feet up, and wondered: Who tended the bees that made the local honey? Who grew the wheat and ground it into flour? Who delivered the groceries to the store and put them on the shelves? I didn’t think much about these jobs before these days of self-isolation.

I am grateful for the people whose work provides what is needed to make a simple loaf of bread. Scarcity and the need for others to risk their health make me value each ingredient. I am careful not to waste. I am sorry for not always having been so careful.

Next came the punching-down. The yeast and gluten had done their work. The dough had risen high in the bowl. But I made a fist and gently pushed the soft dough  until it was almost flat again. It seemed counterproductive. Why squash air pockets the yeast and gluten had worked together to make? Bakers know. Still, it seemed unfair. I punched anyway, re-covered the bowl, and let it rise again. And it did.

May I rise back up when life punches the breath right out of me. Can I trust that the Spirit living within me won’t be beaten so far down that it won’t be able to rise again? Yes, so far. But there have been times – dark times – when I didn’t.  I’m grateful for people in my life who trusted the spirit in me when I couldn’t.

I gently kneaded the risen dough one last time and put it in the pan. Yes. It had to rise again. Then it was ready for the oven. The aroma of baking bread filled the apartment. I had time to wash dishes again while listening to the music and imagining planets not included in Holst’s suite: planets spinning around other stars in other galaxies.

I began cutting up onions and mincing garlic for soup to have along with fresh bread for dinner.

The oven timer buzzed. The loaf was ready. I had made a small roll, too, for eating while it was still hot, melting a smear of butter.

Bread. Many grains, one loaf. Gift of the earth. Work of human hands. I placed the roll on a small blue plate, gift of a Cistercian monk-friend years ago. Made by potters down the road from the monastery, the plate’s dark blue glaze edged with white misty swirls has always reminded me of the night sky, the Milky Way, or photos taken by the Hubble. It’s my “cosmos plate.”

I poured red wine into the matching chalice and sat quietly. My family and friends, my communities, the city, the world and all its people, the earth and all the “helpers,” the cosmos—all were gathered in, sitting with me in the Presence of the Source of all.

The world is not the same as it was when a tiny virus brought us all into this time of uncertainty. May I have the courage to move forward into a new time with a will to change, to create new ways of being with one another and with our planet. May we all be willing to shed the old “normal,” as comforting as it might seem, and to make something new, kinder, and better, together.

broken whole wheat roll on blue ceramic plate, matching chalice, and burning beeswax vigil candle sitting on counter

“Eucharist” means “thanksgiving.” My Sunday baking liturgy finished, I gave thanks, broke the bread, and ate.  Amen.

 

©2020 Mary van Balen

Celebrating the Triduum Together While Apart

Celebrating the Triduum Together While Apart

Holy Thursday begins the Triduum—time set apart to reflect on the meaning of events from the Last Supper to the Resurrection, not only in the lives of Jesus and his disciples, but also in the Paschal Mystery unfolding in our lives.

Following the great tradition observed by generations of Christians, we gather to commemorate these events. But this year is different. We cannot gather. Our buildings are closed.

We are church

Photo: Mary van Balen

Covid-19 requires us to find new ways to “be church.” At its most basic, church is people, not buildings or doctrine or hierarchy. It is the people of God. And while the liturgies of Holy Week are beautiful sources of grace, we don’t need to be in a particular place or follow established rites to experience God-with-us.

In John’s gospel, at the last supper, Jesus promises his disciples that the Spirit will come and dwell within them. That Divine Presence, which lives within each of us, has animated all creation since the beginning: from the tiniest atoms to the furthest galaxies. The challenge of these days is to recognize that Presence in each moment, wherever we are.

While the supper is the setting in John’s gospel read today, the first Eucharist is not the centerpiece. It is the other events of that evening that John remembers. They move our souls with their intimacy and the love that soaks every moment.

During the meal, Jesus rises, ties a towel around his waist, fills a basin with water, and gets on his knees. He cradles his disciples’ dusty feet, washing and drying them one by one. When he’s finished, he asks if they understand what he’s done.

Not waiting for an answer, he tells them: If he, their master and teacher, washes their feet, then they should be ready to wash one another’s feet.

In this moment…

In this present moment, many are providing such physical acts of caring. Healthcare professionals, parents at home with small children, and those caring for sick family members serve the vulnerable. Farm laborers and grocery store workers keep food flowing to our tables. Sanitation workers and janitors keep our streets and buildings clean. Many find ways to feed the homeless and provide a place for them to sleep. The list is long.

This is a eucharist: the self, sacrificed out of love for another.

John also tells of Jesus giving a new commandment: “Just as I have loved you, you should also love one another.”  He says it twice.

During this crisis, we share that love for one another by staying home; by venturing out only when necessary and keeping our distance when we do; by virtual visits instead of meeting face to face. For some, these actions mean loss of jobs and income. How can we show care for them now and when this time has passed?

Jesus reassures his disciples that they will not be forgotten or left alone. He prays for them and for those who will believe through their word: “…that they all may be one. As you, Father are in me and I am in you, may they also be in us…”

In the midst of self-isolation, we ensure that friends and family do not feel forgotten. We draw one another into the circle of oneness and love with calls, texts, and video chats. We check that they are ok, share a laugh or a story, and hold their grief at the loss of loved ones.

Then Jesus goes forward, endures betrayal, suffering, and death, showing the unfathomable depth of God’s love. His disciples spend their sabbath filled with confusion and fear. Then on the first day of the week, Jesus appears to Mary Magdalene. He instructs her to tell the others what she has seen and heard.

When Jesus appears to them all the following day, he greets them with “Peace,” and as promised, bestows the Spirit with a simple breath.

It is that Spirit who makes the present moment the place where we encounter God. We remember the risen Christ is with us. The indwelling Holy Presence abounds in the simple routines of everyday life. While we miss celebrating the Paschal Mysteries together, we are finding new ways to live them while apart.

That is why our churches are closed. At first glance, they appear empty. But really, they are filled with love.

Chapel of St. Ignatius Seattle University
Photo: Mary van Balen

© 2020 Mary van Balen

Niksen: A Time for Be-ing

Niksen: A Time for Be-ing

Woman in a chair looking out over a lake

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

There is a Dutch word for doing nothing: Niksen. I know this not because of my Dutch heritage but from an article that made its way to my email inbox.

What does it say about our modern sensibilities that an article about doing nothing and not feeling guilty about it was an internet hit? The value of multi-tasking is being reevaluated and the ability to say “no” to opportunities for going somewhere or doing something is beginning to look as desirable as saying “yes.” Perhaps we’re longing for some “be-ing,” not “do-ing,” time.

The contrast between “be-ing” and “do-ing” is nothing new. From high school days, I heard the phrase “Who you are is not the same as what you do.”

It made sense, but as life unfolded, allowing that truth to filter from head to heart wasn’t easy. In society’s eyes, one’s job reflects one’s worth: A professor is more important than the worker who maintains the school building. A mother who works outside the home is making a greater contribution than the one who chooses to work full time at home.

We value being busy. Our culture espouses achieving, earning what you get, and the idea that hard work brings success.

Not true. Some of the hardest working people aren’t successful in the eyes of our culture. They don’t make big bucks or hold prestigious positions. Sometimes they can’t make enough to meet basic needs. There are lots of realities besides work that factor into “success”: race, privilege, opportunity, socio-economic status, and just plain luck to name a few.

I emailed my cousin in the Netherlands to see what she thought about niksen and if, as the article suggested, it was a part of the Dutch culture. Jeanette responded quickly.

Talking about niksen was unfamiliar to her since it’s something the Dutch don’t think about a lot since it’s just part of their way of life. Unlike many Anglo-Saxon cultures, she said, they are not “ultra work focused.”

“What seems like the difference between our two cultures is that we take time to relax as a rule. We sit down for coffee in the mornings, lunch at lunchtime, and tea in the afternoons. Kids and teachers do the same in school. We incorporate moments free of duty into our days, and they work well for us.”

“Niksen isn’t planned. It is a way to feel free to stop doing things for a minute—or a little longer—and let your thoughts linger on,” she wrote.

It could be putting your feet up and doing nothing or watching rain pour down outside. It’s a bit of time to recuperate for ourselves.

Children can be a good example of that. One of my daughters recounted a morning she recently shared with a friend and two children.

American Dagger Moth caterpillar. Yellow with five bunches of long, black bristles.

American Dagger Moth caterpillar
Photo: Kathryn Holt

The children hurried through breakfast, looking forward to a promised time in the park. While there, they discovered a bright yellow caterpillar with five bunches of tall, black bristles. The kids were enthralled, and their enthusiasm was contagious. Soon the adults joined in, making little obstacle courses with sticks and leaves, clapping hands when the caterpillar went under rather than over, and apologizing when it fell from an offered stick.

Telling the story, my daughter’s eyes sparkled. “I was as excited as they were,” she said. “So much joy and fun just watching a caterpillar.” Sigh. “It was a wonderful little ‘vacation’ from my adult life.” Niksen.

I imagine that Jesus was good at niksen. Time alone in a boat on the lake or wandering in the wilderness wasn’t always filled with fasting, intense prayer, or planning his next move. I bet he spent plenty of time simply enjoying sunlight sparkling on water or watching clouds changing shape in the sky. From his stories we know he took time to gaze at flowers and observe nature. He liked kids and spent time with friends. The talk wasn’t always serious or the activity always purposeful. He let his thoughts wander and sipped tea or drank wine with friends. Simply resting in Grace. He was a “be-er” as well as a “do-er.”

It’s good to remember. Ecclesiastes says there is a time for everything under heaven. That includes niksen.

© 2019 Mary van Balen

Do What You Are Doing

Do What You Are Doing

Liturgically speaking, summer is all “ordinary time.” It’s a break after the Lent/Triduum/Easter seasons that concluded with the feat of Pentecost. That’s fine with me. Summer is full enough without more events and expectations. Besides, I love “ordinary” time. It gives us breathing room to discover just how extraordinary ordinary is.

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

There is a Latin phrase that provides wisdom for living and praying the “ordinary time” moments in our lives: Age quod agis or “Do what you’re doing.” Finding the origin of the Latin phrase was impossible. Finding its use was easier. It appears in things as diverse as the old western movie, Tombstone, Pope John XXIII’s Journey of a Soul, Saint Ignatius and Jesuit spirituality, and school mottos to name just a few.

Whatever you’re doing, do it with attention. Throw your whole self into it. It’s tempting to idealize this interpretation of the phrase, applying it to individual tasks. You know, if you’re folding laundry, well, concentrate on the laundry. Enjoy the smell and feel of clean clothes. Be grateful you have that neat stack.

On the other hand, such single-mindedness isn’t always possible and isn’t always the wisdom age quod agis offers at a particular moment. The recent family scene in the living room of my nephew and his young family comes to mind.

Jeans hanging over full white laundry basketHe and his wife were busy folding loads of laundry and sorting it into piles for each of their four children. They were preparing for a month-long trip to visit both sets of grandparents and, in addition to that, camping for a week. In the midst of their preparations, they offered hospitality to a visiting aunt, which would be me. And of course, all four children were around, talking to their visitor and taking care of their own preparations—which may have included cleaning rooms and gathering books to take. I leave it to your imagination. Not a lot of time there to sniff the laundry.

Life and prayer are a communal endeavor. “What you’re doing” can be one thing or a number of things. Those young parents were taking care of laundry while answering questions, directing activity, and making me feel welcome. Their “what you are doing” was being good parents while welcoming the visitor. They gave it their all.

Same with us. We might be students, teachers, employees, parents, or members of a community (vowed or not). We might be children, arranging care for an aging parent. And while it would be nice to give ourselves completely to a solitary walk on the beach, listening uninterrupted to a symphony, or gardening quietly in our yard, life doesn’t always happen that way. It’s more likely a hodgepodge of activity.

What ordinary time says to me is that’s ok. No, not just “ok.” That’s the path to holiness. “Do what you’re doing.” No matter what that is in the present moment, it’s where we meet God.

We celebrate feast days of a number of saints in July who were good at this. While the lives of all these virtuous predecessors can speak to the holiness of living fully the ordinary, everyday life, Benedict (July 11), Mary Magdalene (July 22), Joachim and Anne (July 26), and Martha (July 29), hold a special place in my heart.

Watanabe Sado (1913-1996) Tokyo. Stencil print on rice paper.Hangs in the Gathering Place at the entrance to Sacred Heart Chapel at Saint Benedict’s Monastery, St. Joseph, MN

Benedict for his great Rule written with emphasis on community as a way to holiness and his understanding of humility, compassion, and care for one another as spiritual disciplines right up there with prayer and fasting. Flexibility was key then as it is now. Mary Magdalene for her courage and deep love of Jesus. Hers was the woman’s voice that first proclaimed the resurrection to others who were disinclined to believe her. Joachim and Anne (or if those aren’t their actual names, the parents of Mary) for being good parents. Enough said! Martha, who often gets a bad rap for hanging out in the kitchen when she could have joined the others at the feet of the teacher. She took care of the nitty-gritty and, as one who has spent countless hours doing that, surely heard most of what was said!

Happy summer. Courage! Age quod agis!

© 2019 Mary van Balen

Tea, Haiku, and a Walk in the Woods

Tea, Haiku, and a Walk in the Woods

To celebrate this first day of Spring, the Vernal Equinox, I gave myself the gift of a slow morning and filled it with tea, haiku, and a walk in the woods.

First, I poured myself a cup of tea, brewed from fresh ginger root and soft, sweet Medjool dates, as my Korean friend had taught me. Then, I opened a slim, old book of poetry, Haiku Harvest. I bought it when I was in high school and quickly fell in love with the old haiku masters’ elegant simplicity of word and wisdom. Finally, having nourished body and soul, I set out for a walk, stopping first at a patch of snowdrops and slightly spent winter aconite and then making my way to a small nearby woods.

A patch of snowdrops and winter aconite

Snowdrops and winter aconite PHOTOS: Mary van Balen

 

Small green sprout pushing up through last years brown leaves

A small bit of green pushing up through last years leaves

 

HE IS UNKNOWN

THE POET WHO SINGS

THIS  GREATEST

OF ALL SONGS — SPRING!

Shiki

 

HONKING WILD GEESE COME

SCRAWLING DELIGHT

IN SPRING’S COLD

PALE MORNING SUNLIGHT

So-In

 

I didn’t hear any honking geese this morning, but the woods were filled with chickadees flitting form tree to tree, dipping and singing spring songs. The woodpeckers remained hidden, but I could hear their calls and hollow drumming on dead tree trunks.

 

a piece of weathered and hollowed out tree roots in the woods

 

IN MY HOUSE THIS SPRING

TRUE, THERE IS NOTHING,

THAT IS,

THERE IS EVERYTHING!

Sodo

 

 

 

In the woods, tiny green leaves appear sprouting from last year's growth.

Spring greening

 

OUT OF ONE WINTERY

TWIG, ONE BUD,

ONE BLOSSOM’S WORTH

OF WARMTH AT LONG LAST!

Ransetsu

 

UNDER A SPRING MIST,

ICE AND WATER

FORGETTING

THEIR OLD DIFFERENCE…

 

A dirt path though brown, fallen leaves, trees on either side

MY HORSE CLIP-CLOPPING

OVER A FIELD…

OH HO!

I’M PART OF THE PICTURE!

Basho

 

And so we are…

Happy Spring!