PHOTO: Mary van Balen “You’re a natural contemplative,” a priest/friend once told me in high school. A few months before, I wouldn’t have known what he meant. Raised Catholic and having attending Catholic schools from the start, one might have imagined I would have already learned about the rich tradition of contemplative prayer in the the Church. No. Perhaps at that time, such knowledge was deemed unsuitable for the person in the pew. Or perhaps the diocesan clergy were not practicing contemplatives themselves: You can’t give what you don’t have.
A community of Carmelite nuns, opening their doors to those hungering for something deeper, gifted me with vocabulary and understanding of what I had been drawn to since a child: a quiet way of prayer that was simply part of who I was. They also provided a place where I could come and, well, pray. Sitting in the quiet chapel for a half hour before Mass, just aware of being with others in the Presence of God, was one of the most life-giving times of the week during those years.
Through my Carmelite friends I learned of Sts. Theresa of Avila and John of the Cross. I learned that meditation was not the property of Eastern philosophies and religions that many of my friends had looked to for something beyond rote prayers taught in most Catholic schools. And once given words for my way of being prayerful, I found more “teachers” in literature on the topic of contemplative prayer.
The writings of Thomas Merton and Dorothy Day spoke to my heart. I gobbled up what I could find. Who knew? Madeleine L’Engle, beloved author of of young adult literature I read to my fourth grade students, was also drawn to comtemplative prayer and had written books that explored it in her life. And of course there are the poets.
L’Engle’s books introduced me to some metaphysical poets: George Herbert, HEnry Vaughan, Thomas Traherne. The great but unsung modern Carmelite poet, Jessica Powers is one who feeds my soul as does Mary Oliver.
The list goes on, and grows, and becomes more inclusive. But today, on the feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel, I remember those who opened the doors for me. I treasure the friendship of one Carmelite friend particularly. To this day, when I need to weep or to delve into the meaning of Hebrew words, she is the one I call. Thank you.
And Happy Feast Day!
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