The Call to Love, Right Where We Are
January 18, 2017 By Leave a Comment

The Call to Love, Right Where We Are

Rita and Mom's hands

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

Originally published in The Catholic Times, January 7, 2017

I spent a nice, low-key last day of 2016. Ran a few errands. Mailed two packages. Share a leisurely lunch with a good friend who came back to my place for a few last Christmas cookies and conversation. As I write and wait for midnight, I hear one of my daughters and friend laughing in the living room, here for a few hours before heading out to a party. A nice, homey, New Year’s Eve.

I admit to looking forward to 2017 with some trepidation, more aware than usual of the uncertainties we face at home and around the world. The issues are not new, but carry an increased sense of urgency: civil rights, immigration, poverty, global warming, terrorism, war.

Over the holidays, a friend shared with me the trauma she is experiencing after returning from working on a documentary in the Holy Land. While she heard lots of talk of Bethlehem as Christmas approached, and the strains of “O Little Town of Bethlehem” filled the air, she was overcome by the suffering she witnessed in the modern occupied city of Bethlehem.

“Both Palestinians and Jewish Israelis, say, ‘There is no such thing as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder here because there is no Post, just traumatic stress disorder’,” she said.

Her experience of one small part of the world speaks to the fear and uncertainty of so many in the global “neighborhood.”

How do we move forward into this new year? As followers of the Christ, how do we bring the love and peace of God’s kingdom into the world? How do we live with hope?

Yesterday, I read the next-to-the-last-last chapter of the Rule of Saint Benedict which spoke of the “good zeal” of monastics: to show respect for the other, to seek what is better for others, to support one another, and to show patience and love. Above all, to love God.

In the face of great challenges, loving those we live with and encounter in our daily lives seems trivial. What difference can such small actions make?

In commentary following the passage from the Rule, Benedictine Joan Chittister speaks to Benedict’s insistence on listening for God’s voice in one another and in the present moment. She recounts a wisdom story from another tradition: A seeker asks the teacher how to reach Enlightenment. The answer is deceptively simple: No special time or place is required. No special way of listening or unique places to look. Being present to the moment, to the people around you, to the place where you are is what is needed. Enlightenment happens there.

painting: The Good van Gogh Samaritan, by Vincent

The Good Samaritan by Vincent van Gogh

Jesus in the gospels tells his followers that the Kingdom of God is now, in the moment, as well as coming. He said whatever we do for the least among us, we do for him. He invited us to live as he lived, present in the moment to his relationship with God and with neighbor. And Jesus’ parable of the Good Samaritan, clearly shows who that neighbor is—everyone.

Why is hearing God’s voice and experiencing God in the moment and in others so difficult? Why is “Practicing the Presence of God,” as the 17th century Carmelite, Brother Lawrence taught, such a challenge? Reading his work of the same title, we realize being truly present to God in ordinary life is a human struggle, not unique to our time.

The temptation is to imagine, like the seeker in Joan’s story, that God is found in extraordinary places. That to participate in transforming the world with Divine Love requires dramatic action, and that only a few exceptionally “holy ones” are called to do so.

As we enter 2017, the temptation is to be overwhelmed and think our lives too small, our actions too insignificant to make a difference. Jesus tells us “not so.” The temptation is to look to others, more powerful, more “important” to do the work. Jesus turns that upside down, too. He called poor fisherman, women, and people on the fringes of society ordinary people, not the religious or political big-wigs of his day to bring Love into the world.

And Jesus assured us that we don’t act alone. Joined with the Source of all that is, our acts of love are part of the Divine Act of Love that confronts darkness and is not overcome. Here is the hope we carry into the new year. Be present. Be aware of God-with-us right where we are. And trust in the power of the Love that flows through us to transform the world.

© 2017 Mary van Balen

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Lessons from Paris: Befriending Holy Leisure
June 22, 2016 By 3 Comments

Lessons from Paris: Befriending Holy Leisure

Woman on a bench in a park writing in her journal

Photo: Mary van Balen
Writing in Jardin du Luxembourg

Originally published in The Catholic Times   June 16, 2016

I’ve recently returned from a wonderful vacation of almost a month in Paris with two of my daughters, one of whom is doing research at the National Natural History Museum there—a perfect reason to visit. Spending so much time with adult daughters is a gift itself. Doing it in Paris? Well, that made it extraordinary.

We did the usual tourist things, visiting museums and landmarks, enjoying Parisian baguettes smeared with butter or jam, and drinking lots of café. A highlight was making the short trip to spend a day at Giverny and Monet’s garden, a lifelong dream of my youngest.

Standing in the oval rooms of Musee de l’Orangerie surrounded by the giant water lily canvasses was breathtaking. I don’t think it makes any difference which you do first, visit the garden or feast on Monet’s paintings, the experiences enrich one another. Musee d’Orsay, a favorite, required two visits.

Art and music are everywhere, not only in museums but in shops, cathedrals, and along the streets. Beauty heals, whether in a painting or in the care taken with displays of pastries and breads for sale. Once, on our way to an evening concert, we were surprised by a woman singing an aria. Speakers provided the music, and her powerful voice poured through the small street. A trio on military patrol, heart-stirred by the song like the rest of us, paused, and one lifted his iPhone to record the sound.

We became accustomed to hearing a classical pianist playing Chopin on Pont Saint-Louis near Notre Dame, someone playing accordion along a strip of small restaurants, or jazz groups entertaining on street corners.  In every case, people stopped to listen, sometimes to dance. Always, music stirs the soul.

I was grateful for the length of our stay. A friend commented on one of my posts saying he was glad I had time to spend enjoying “holy leisure.” A sense of the importance of befriending “holy leisure” is wisdom that came home with me. The temptation, vacation or not, is to try to do too much. In Paris, there was always another amazing museum to visit or landmark to see. What would friends say when you returned if you told them you didn’t visit the Louvre?

We could pack every day, allowing vacation to become a check list. We chose otherwise. While our list of things to see and do was long enough, we gave ourselves days to do nothing special and simply be present to the gifts of the moment and each other.

My daughter made time to paint. Sometimes we walked to a park and she set up on a bench. Other days, the dining room table worked. I journaled, wrote blog posts, and finally figured out how to sketch the lovely green table umbrellas at Luxembourg Garden. We wended our way to our favorite street, Rue Mouffetard, sat in a café and enjoyed starting (or ending) a day slowly. Some of the best times were sitting or walking wherever, all three of us, enjoying each other’s company.

Back home, events and places are different, but schedules and expectations can be as demanding. There is work to do, family and friends to see, events to attend. But I returned determined to enjoy little things, listen to more music, and be attentive to Spirit movements in my heart.

One afternoon, after preparing dinners for the week to come and catching up on vacation laundry, I walked outside and tossed cans and jars into the recycling bin. The air was particularly clear after a rain, and as anyone in central Ohio with asthma knows, that is something to celebrate. Back in the kitchen, I started to wash up the dishes, then remembered Paris. “No,” I thought responding to the lift I had felt, “Enjoy.”

I poured a glass of iced tea and sat in the plastic lawn chair on my porch. That’s it. I sat and looked and breathed air that felt good in my lungs. A hummingbird buzzed in over my shoulders and headed toward a green patch of ground cover looking for blooms. A sparrow hopped out from underneath a bush with a huge piece of fuzzy fluff in its beak. The breeze picked up and leaves on the trees across the street danced.

A short prayer of thanksgiving. Some quiet moments of remembering that I live in God’s presence.

The truth that we meet God in the present is nothing new, but deceptively simple. In Paris, at home, anywhere.

© 2016 Mary van Balen

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Morning Prayer in Trosly
May 14, 2016 By 5 Comments

Morning Prayer in Trosly

After breakfast of toast—a treat since our apartment does not have a toaster—butter, jam, and coffee, my friend Rick went to morning prayer in the chapel at La Ferme de Trosly. I went upstairs and straightened my bedroom: Sheets and towels were dropped into the laundry basket in the hallway. Bedspreads and pillows were smoothed and clothes packed into the always handy Longchamp bag. I draped a trench coat and sweater over my arm and took the spiral steps down to the welcome desk. Leaving my things with Benedicta, I opened the door into a misty morning for a walk.

Prayer and Attentiveness

close up of tiny flowers growing on a mossy, rock wall in Trosly, France.

Tiny flowers on old stone wall, Trosly-Breuil, France. Photo: Mary van Balen

Praying

by Mary Oliver

It doesn’t have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t
a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.”

close up of a tangle of roots and a snail shell on old mossy stone wall in Trosly, France

Tangle or roots, flowers, and a snail shell on old stone wall, Trosly-Breuil, France. Photo: Mary van Balen

 

View on a misty morning on Rue des Croisettes, Trosly, France.

Rue des Criosettes, Trosly-Breuil, France
Photo: Mary van Balen

 

Close up of Horse Chestnut tree blooms, Trosly, France.

Horse Chestnut blooms, Trosly-Breuil, France
Photo: Mary van Balen

 

close up of dew beads clinging to edge of red leaf

Dew beads, Trosly-Breuil, France Photo: Mary van Balen

 

Close up of purple and white lilacs

Lilacs, Trosly-Breuil, France Photo: Mary van Balen

 

The Val Fleuri, Trosly, France Photo: Mary van Balen

The Val Fleuri, Trosly-Breuil, France Photo: Mary van Balen

 

Close up of green weeds and plants covered with dew beside the road, Trosly, France

Beside the road, Trosly-Breuil, France Photo: Mary van Balen

 

Amen.

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Art: Awakening Us to Everyday Wonders
May 10, 2016 By 5 Comments

Art: Awakening Us to Everyday Wonders

Large, ornate gold and white clock in Musee d'Orsay Paris France

Photo: Mary van Balen

Kathryn and I successfully navigated the Metro this morning and made our way to the Musée d’Orsay. Originally it was a railway station that included a hotel and reception room, but as train transportation changed, the station was gradually abandoned. In 1977 the French government decided to transform the buildings into a museum, and by 1986 it was opened to the public. With huge clocks and vaulted ceilings, the building itself is breathtaking. And then, of course, there is the magnificent  collection it holds.

Once there, we quickly made our way up to the 5th floor that houses works by the Impressionists. I immediately recognized some of the paintings, and my eyes filled with tears. Monet, Manet, Renoir, Degas, Cézanne, Pissaro, Sisley… The emotional connection was immediate.

Series of five paintings of the Cathedral of Rouen each done at a different time of day by Claude Monet.

Series La Cathedrale de Rouen Claude Monet Photo: Mary van Balen

Standing in front of Monet’s series of paintings of the Cathedral of Rouen, I imagined the man, coming to the church day after day, at different times, to capture the light. What sight he had. I was reminded of a conversation with artist Marvin Triguba, years ago:

“Marvin,” I asked, “how do you paint the light that makes everything so alive, so real?” “It’s how I see,” he answered. “I see everything like that. Doesn’t everyone see that way?”

The paintings draw crowds of people from around the world. Some stand and gaze for a long while. Others take quick photos and move on. All, for a moment, experience the world through the artist’s eyes and heart.

L'Englise d'Auvers-sur-Oise van Gogh Photo; Mary van Balen

L’Englise d’Auvers-sur-Oise van Gogh
Photo; Mary van Balen

As I walked through the rooms there and in the Neo-Impressionism wing, I wondered at the subject matter—so ordinary and yet, as the artist reveals, extraordinarily beautiful and transcendent. There was one of snow on Paris rooftops, a yard full of white turkeys, a haystack, a vase of flowers, a picnic, a train station, a woman with a parasol, a table set for tea. Someone hurrying down a lane past a church, and a starry night.

 

close up photo of cut up kiwi and nectarine in white bowl

Photo: Mary van Balen

 

Everyday sights. I thought about the kiwi and nectarines Kathryn cut up and placed in a white bowl for breakfast this morning. Baguette broken and buttered. Grey clouds threatening rain hanging over the the city.

View of Sacré-Cœur from Musée d’Orsay

View of Sacré-Cœur from Musée d’Orsay

 

 

 

 

 

 

The couple van Gogh painted walking beneath the dark blue sky studded with brilliant stars, did they notice what glory hung above their heads? Did the woman hurrying around the cathedral notice the sunlight on the roof or the grass along the road?

 

Starry Night Over the Rhone by Vincent van Gogh Photo: Mary van Balen

Starry Night Over the Rhone by Vincent van Gogh
Photo: Mary van Balen

If, as Emily in “Our Town” did when she returned to relive one day, we appreciated the beauty of life at every moment, how could we do anything but appreciate? How could we do anything other than respond as our gifts dictated: paint, dance, write, draw, play music, pray? Or, simply stand still and open every pore to the Grace that constantly overflows around us, in us, and through us?

The painting "Roses and Anemones" by Vincent van Gogh

Roses and Anemones by Vincent van Gogh
Photo: Mary van Balen

 

Today, I gave thanks for artists who have reminded us of the Sacred present in our midst. Thanks for those who recognize the value of their work, collect it, preserve it, and make places where we can come to see and be reminded that we move through wonder every day.

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Bonjour!
May 7, 2016 By 4 Comments

Bonjour!

Poppies along path Jardin de Plantes, Paris

Photo: Mary van Balen

Cool air slides into the apartment through open windows. No screens gray the view of a Parisian morning. Bird song, motorcycle growls, and car hums signal the city is stretching and meeting the new day. It’s Saturday, my first here, and I don’t know just how busy the morning will be. I’m enjoying tea and baguette smeared with a bit of jam. A bright bouquet of flowers, a gift from my daughter, sits on the table where I write. Another daughter just left, on her way to the Jardin de Plantes to paint.

To paint! We are both enjoying the biggest gift of this adventure: time. Time to savor the morning breeze and the sweet taste of breakfast. Time to walk slowly through huge public gardens, watching poppies nod and dance as people strolled by.

young woman sitting on bench painting in Jardin de Luxembourg

Photo: Mary van Balen

“What do these people do?” I asked my daughter yesterday as we carried our chairs to a shady place in the huge public garden. So many adults filled the park on a Friday afternoon. What about their jobs? Do they take long lunches? Not all of them could be tourists.

We settled in. Kathryn pulled a pencil, paints, a tablet, a collapsable water pot, brushes, and a bottle of water from her Longchamp bag. I pulled a journal, pencil, eraser, and pen from mine. (Thank goodness for Longchamp bags. They not only help us blend in a bit since so many women carry them here, but they hold everything!)

Pink tree in the midst of green trees and grass in Jardin de Luxemburg, Paris

Photo: Mary van Balen

A bright pink tree rose flamboyantly in the midst of green and caught our attention. My daughter began to sketch out her composition. For a while, I sat and took in the sight of the pink flame, wondering what kind of tree it was and how it came to be there. Deep breaths. In and out. No hurry. Time to savor beauty and to be present to the Holy Mystery that held us all there.

After writing  a bit in my journal and making a sketch of the tree, I took some close photos of its leaves thinking I might discover its name one day. Lots of people stopped to look and take photos of the tree that was simply being its beautiful self. Perhaps it would not have been as striking if the chestnuts and grass had not provided such cool, green contrast.

A line from Thomas Merton came to mind. I couldn’t remember it verbatim, but the thought was about how naturally trees were able to be just what they were made to be, yet how we human beings struggle to do the same. Those trees in the park were saying “yes” to their Creator, catching sunlight on their green (or pink) leaves and stunning all who saw with the beauty of pure being.

My daughter and I, witness to the glory, were relearning the grace of simply being who we are.

 

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Trading the Past for the Present
March 11, 2016 By Leave a Comment

Trading the Past for the Present

pink wildflower prairie smoke

PHOTO: Mary van Balen Prairie Smoke St. John’s Arboretum

Frist published in the Catholic Times  March 13, 2016

“Never before has anyone spoken like this man.” That’s what the guards said in response to the Pharisees’ questioning about why they hadn’t arrested Jesus and brought him in. Jesus held them spellbound by what he said and how he said it. Maybe they hadn’t gone to listen, but once they were in earshot, they couldn’t help it. There was something different, something new was afoot, and the man from Galilee was at the center of it.

I imagine many people heard the words, found them interesting, maybe even talked about them over dinner—but didn’t change their lives. They woke up the next morning and went about business as usual. Others, like the Pharisees, heard enough to make them fear for their power and position. Jesus was interesting, but dangerous.

Then there were others, like the guards, like the disciples who listened and were moved in ways they couldn’t understand. “Never before has anyone spoken like this man,” was the best they could do at the moment. Deep down, Jesus’ words and presence had stirred something within that defied explanation, but that was changing hearts and vision.

I thought of their words when I read the passage from Isaiah in this coming Sunday’s first reading. “Remember not the events of the past, / the things of long ago consider not, / see, I am doing something new! / Now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?”

What keeps us from seeing something new or from appreciating it? What kept some people from hearing Jesus and allowing his words to fill their hearts, while others did, even if at the moment, they couldn’t tell you just what those words meant? Understanding would come later.

I think Isaiah’s insight is a good one even today: Sometimes, what keeps us from being aware of a new reality is preoccupation with the past. Our minds are so filled with “chatter” that we notice nothing. We are living in our heads, and God is in the present.

It’s easy to get lost in thought and worry over past hurts: rejections, injustices, and failures. Internal debates can consume hours: What was said or not said. What I could have done but didn’t. What I shouldn’t have done, but did. Perhaps we rehash decisions made and directions taken: How different my life might be if only…

Isaiah was right to warn about spending time remembering things of long ago. Not only can we do nothing to change the past, but letting it consume time and attention keeps us from noticing what new life is being offered in the moment. “See, I am doing something new! Now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?”

The prophet sounds incredulous: How could you NOT see it?

Not Difficult. We have much to think and worry about. Jesus spoke of love, of God’s indwelling, of compassion for others and for ourselves. He spoke of suffering and serving the least among us. Such faith, such a message changes the world, a person at a time. We hear those words in scripture. Pope Francis reminds us of them eloquently in his actions as well as in his speech as do others in our lives. Creation itself speaks to us of wholeness and interconnectedness if we are paying attention.

But words of wisdom, ancient or not, must enter our hearts and take root there before they become transformative. Only when we notice and respond can something new spring forth. Are we listening? Are we open and welcoming despite the uncertainty of change? The Spirit within each of us is doing something new. Can we see it? Are we, like the guards, unable to pull ourselves away, not understanding, but knowing that some new way of being is offered if we have courage to follow? Do we trust that the same Spirit who stirs our hearts will provide strength to move forward? Do we trust others to do the same?

As we draw nearer to Holy Week and Easter, I wonder about Jesus and the stirrings in his heart. How carefully he listened as he grew and moved into his public ministry. How completely one he was with the Holy Mystery. How deep his trust not only in God, but also in the rest of us—his disciples, those guards, the generations of people to come. Jesus trusted us all to notice, to be transformed, and to carry on the work of salvation he had begun.

It is forever new. “Now it springs forth. Do you not perceive it?”

© 2016 Mary van Balen

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Praying Presence at the Roosevelt
February 25, 2016 By 4 Comments

Praying Presence at the Roosevelt

white teacup filled with dark tea on deep green and white saucerBright sun was a welcome change from the grey overcast days we’d been having. I hurried along the sidewalk, passing upscale condos along the street adjacent to the downtown parking lot where my car waits everyday while I’m at work. The brown sandstone cathedral sits just across the street. I thought about dropping in, but opted for the church of buildings and people, cars and cracked sidewalks instead. The cathedral would be locked anyway.

I moved quickly, wanting to make the most of my break: Arrive at the Roosevelt Coffeehouse, order tea, and have time to read. After walking a  block to avoid construction, I turned left. There was a policeman walking in front of me and a man in front of him–an unsteady man whose black leather jacket hung oddly, drooping off the right side of his slight body. He had something slung over his shoulder. But what I noticed most was his stumbling gait and regular brushing against buildings’ old bricks.

I slowed, a participant in this odd, short parade, then turned down an alley, whispering a prayer for the man and for the policeman who followed him. Taking long strides and stretching my legs felt as good as the cool air and sunlight. When I turned left again and crossed the street, there was the man in the drooping black jacket. He must have walked faster, too. The policeman, no longer following, had stopped on the corner to chat with a security guard on a bicycle. Parade over.

Slipping into Roosevelts, my new favorite place to spend a break, I smiled at the barista and looked over the day’s menu of coffee and teas. How could I not order an oolong fig peach tea? I found a table by a window, pulled a book from my purse and settled in. Music comes from a turntable and donated records at this place, and the soundtrack from “Oh Brother, Where Art Thou” was playing. I remembered singing a variation of one song a cappella with my sister and my ex, years ago in tight, smooth harmony. My foot was tapping.

“Oh brother, lets go down, come on down, don’t you wanna go down? Oh sister, lets go down, down in the valley to pray.”

The tea arrived, lovely in a large white cup sitting on a saucer glazed with deep green. Steam rose like incense, and holding cupped hands above it, I savored the fragrance and warmth. I don’t remember when I stopped reading and started paying attention instead, but that’s what I did.

Aromas of freshly ground coffee beans and spicy teas were thick enough to taste. My tea rested on a table made of a repurposed bowling lane, its light wood encased in enough polyurethane to make it shine. All the tables and counters were made of the same luminous stuff.

People had gathered midday at this little place. There was a man in a flannel shirt engaged in lively discussion with two women. Between them was a scatter of papers covered with colored pie charts and notes. They were planning a meeting and exchanging phone numbers. Five or six people worked on laptops and three guys sat on stools at the counter, laughing and talking about music. One young woman, shutting it all out, or at least trying to, was studying.

I was paying attention. Watching bits of dust and steam lit up by sunlight coming in the window. Marveling at how different people are from one another, what different lives we have: the policeman, the jacket man, the people in this place, my coworkers just a few blocks away.

The congregation of the church outside the cathedral. The prayer, paying attention.  Simone Weil famously said, “Absolutely unmixed attention is prayer.” The ancient prayer of attentiveness, of being present to the moment, runs through the great traditions. Mary Oliver, a poet of attentiveness, writes:

Praying

It doesn’t have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t
a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.

Draining the last bit of tea from the cup, I packed up my book, said goodbye, and walked from the doorway of one church into the expanse of another.

 

 

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Lent: Come As You Are
February 12, 2016 By 3 Comments

Lent: Come As You Are

small table with purple cloth, candle, cross, shells, feather, for Lent

Photo: Mary van Balen

Lent comes quickly this year. “That’s why I’m not ready,” I tell myself as I sit quietly and ponder this column. I wanted to be more centered. I wanted my office to be straightened up, desk uncluttered to better concentrate. I wanted to have prayed more, read more, been still more. But, here I am, on the brink of Lent, behind in lots of things, and not prepared for the season at all.

Or maybe, that’s how we are meant to greet this liturgical season: No big preparations. No cultural hoopla like the marketing blitz that accompanies the coming of Christmas. This is a “come-as-you-are” event, and usually, this is how I am.

I’m pulled in many directions, full of good intentions and forgotten resolutions. Jesus has words for me in this Saturday’s gospel. When the Pharisees ask him why he’s hanging out with the sinners and riff-raff, he seems a bit surprised. Why wouldn’t he? After all, he says, those who are healthy don’t need a physician; the sick do.

So as Lent approaches, I console myself with the thought that I fit right in. Jesus isn’t expecting my office table to be clear of papers, bills, and books. He knows me too well. I think he’d feel right at home at my dining room table. It hasn’t had a tablecloth on it since Christmas. Instead, it’s been home to my daughter’s 3-D printer that arrived during her stay as she recuperated from a broken foot.

And he wouldn’t mind eating leftovers or a hastily prepared meal after I return from a long day at work. No, as I read through the Mass readings before and after Ash Wednesday, I began to relax. If I’m willing to slow down and sit with Jesus at my table and in my heart, no matter the mess, then I’m ready for Lent.

Last week, a group of friends and I shared dinner, conversation, and prayer. One woman played a song, Pilgrim, by Enya, and this line caught my attention: “All days come from one day/That much you must know/You cannot change what’s over/But only where you go.”

All days come from one day. “That day is this day,” I thought. The present day, the only one we have. Paul says something like that in Ash Wednesday’s second reading: “In an acceptable time I heard you, and on the day of salvation I helped you. Behold, now is a very acceptable time; behold, now is the day of salvation.”

Now, this moment, is the acceptable time. This day. And then the day that follows. And the day that follows that. One day at a time is the day of salvation. The anonymous author of The Cloud of Unknowing puts it this way: “Therefore, be attentive to time and the way you spend it. Nothing is more precious…God gives only the present, moment by moment…”

The thing is, I’m often not there. Not following Enya’s wisdom, I’m tempted to rethink the past, allowing regrets and sorrow from yesterday’s pain to capture my attention. Or I can spend time speculating about future scenarios for family, friends, and our world.

What grace to have this liturgical season to remind us how important it is to embrace each day along with its joys and sorrows; to trust that “this day” has something good for us, or at least that some opportunity to grow, something good can come from it.

What blessing to have the wisdom of those who have gone before us. It’s a mixed-up crowd we walk with, this “communion of saints,” canonized or not, living or dead, who recommend ancient disciplines of prayer, fasting, and almsgiving for our journey through Lent.

There are as many ways to observe these directives as there are people who follow them. One may do well to abstain from food, another from “screen time.” One may need to give herself permission to celebrate who she is, while focusing on others might be the call for someone else. Maybe we give time, money, or talents. Perhaps the grace is in receiving what is offered.

But, what it comes down to is spending these forty-days shedding what gets in the way of attending to God-with-us. It’s about nurturing ways of being that help us listen to the Holy One within and believe the amazing truth that God loves us, calls us to share Love in this world, and will help us do it. It’s about choosing to live as fully as we can, trusting that all days will come from the one day lived well.

© 2016 Mary van Balen

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Demonstrations in Physics – and Prayer
January 19, 2016 By 2 Comments

Demonstrations in Physics – and Prayer

Dr Julius Sumner Miller“My name is Julius Sumner Miller, and physics is my business.” That’s how he opened every show. Physics was his business. So was wonder.

A longtime friend who attended school with my daughters and was a frequent visitor to our house, still keeps in touch though he lives most of the time in Southeast Asia. His email today included a link to a show he had rediscovered: Professor Julius Sumner Miller’s “Demonstrations in Physics.

I smiled as I watched the lesson on air pressure, a 14-minute delight of knowledge and unabashed enthusiasm. Dr. Miller’s show aired on PBS and was a staple in our house. We didn’t have cable, so my parents taped it for us. We all enjoyed them, but my oldest daughter, now a physicist herself, was the most faithful viewer.

Dr. Miller loved sharing the wonders of physics in the everyday world from air pressure, to heat conduction, to, one of our favorites, Bernoulli’s principle. His joy was contagious. For years, after my daughter disappeared into the basement to build and conduct her own experiments, she would call me down to demonstrate them and echoed two of Dr. Miller’s frequent expressions: “That’s beautiful. Let’s do it again” (and he and she would). If it didn’t go as planned, “Oh well, an experiment never fails. You just learn something you didn’t expect to learn.”

Those memories flooded back as I watched the episode this morning. Something else came to mind as well: What a gift to retain the wonder and abandon that are natural for children as we become adults. In addition to adding “enchantment to the soul,” as Miller said, it also opens the soul to receive Grace. We can’t see the extraordinary all around us if we aren’t present where we are, looking with open eyes and heart. Children are good at this.

In his book, Growing Young, anthropologist Ashley Montagu listed these qualities among others in the childlike nature: “…curiosity, inquisitiveness, thirst for knowledge, the need to learn, imagination, creativity, open-mindedness, experimental-mindedness, spontaneity, enthusiasm…joy…”

Along life’s path, many of us lose that childlike amazement at the world around us. Scientists like Montagu and Miller are not the only ones to understand the importance of such presence. Like Thornton Wilder said in “Our Town,” saints and poets do, some.

Watching Dr. Miller delight in how things work reminded me of Sts. Francis and Bonaventure extolling God’s presence in the “book of nature.” For Bonaventure, God is “fountain fullness,” spilling out of and over everything, in all life, outer as well as inner.

Most religious traditions see the Holy One reflected in creation, and creation as a way to encounter that Sacred. Rumi, the 13th century mystical poet of Islam wrote: “The beauty and grandeur of God belong to Him; the beauty and grandeur of the world of creation are borrowed from Him.”

For me, Dr. Miller’s physics was a call to prayer, a joyful time to marvel at some small part of creation and to soak up the Goodness flowing through it all.

Take a few minutes to feed the child within; watch an episode or two of Demonstrations in Physics. No matter what you believe, or not, about prayer, Presence, and creation, you’ll be delighted.

 

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Permission to be Still
July 13, 2015 By Leave a Comment

Permission to be Still

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

The day is perfect. I’m sitting with a friend on the porch of her beautiful home in the woods on Whidbey Island. Cool air blows by and sunlight plays on the branches of firs, cedars, and hemlocks. Chestnut backed chickadees and black headed juncos fly in and out of the feeder, and a woodpecker calls like a squeaky dog-toy from the woods. I’ve just finished drinking a large glass of watermelon aqua frescas when the feeling rises: Guilt. I should be doing something. I could write in my journal, make a sketch of the Douglas Fir, cedar, and hemlock needles so I can remember and identify them. I could read or compose a blog. I have an article to edit.

But all I want to do is sit, look, and breathe in pine-scented salty air. My friend reclines in her favorite red canvas chair, and now and then we comment on the birds, lack of rain, or deer that eat the Marion berry brambles she brought from her former home on Puget Sound. Then we are quiet, each with our own thoughts, or in my case, a combination of no thoughts and guilt.

I finally give myself permission to be still. To be an appreciator of creation, of a friendship that doesn’t require lots of conversation. To be present to the moment without having to record it with camera or pen. I simply sit, and when I think about it, give thanks.  It’s luxurious. And Graceful. And perfectly acceptable.

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

Not more than a month ago, I was on the other side of the country, participating in a contemplative residency for Shalem’s Spiritual Guidance Program. Silence and presence wove in and out of every day, reverenced  as an essential way of prayer. A way of becoming mindful of the Creator who made all and who resides within each of us. How could such stillness be worthy on retreat, but suspect on this glorious afternoon? How does our culture’s value of “doing” so quickly trump the wisdom of being still?  Have you wondered at that when the moment says “rest,” but some inner voice speaks louder: “Not now. No Time. Maybe later?” When the ingrained imperative to “be productive” pulls you away from your heart’s desire, how has your struggle gone?

Today, I wrestled for awhile, then relaxed into spacious silence. A small victory, sweet and refreshing, like the watermelon aqua frescas.

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