Zen Gardening

Local Botanical Garden's Japanese Zen Garden

 

J and I ran from a local park to the local botanical gardens to see what was left of the blooming cherry trees. We visited the area close to the tea room which also contains a Zen Garden. I have been to the garden numerous times between high school and present day. I have seen this garden a multitude of times, looking at it, over it, beyond it. Even when J and I travelled to Kyoto and saw the Ginkakuji temple, I viewed the “sea of silver sand” and wondered the meaning of these large areas of gravel with rocks arranged within it in a purposeful, random way. 

 

All this time, the gardens meant little to me. I did not see how it lent itself to meditation or represented the struggle between “impermanence and stasis in human life.”[i] And I was okay with this ignorance. But my feelings changed on our run to the gardens a week ago.

 

I admired the garden and looked at the concentric circles around what I considered the “living objects” of moss, boulders and a bonsai-type cedar. The circles emanated from the living objects, stretching in more encompassing circumferences. 

 

In an instant, I felt the Zen masters knew something about reality I did not. They intuited what Einstein would formalize. They “saw” how particles, waves, molecules, quarks existed beyond the large, splashy and utterly embodied objects which hold and distract sight. 

 

I also thought of my grandmother’s death vision of Christ. When my mother first told the story, she said Granny’s words were “everywhere He goes is love and peace,” and in my mind, maybe even viscerally, I “felt” the force of the love and peace. They had weight, girth, and strength – the forces invisible, but experienced as enveloping. . .

 

Much like the gravel in the garden – the circles at once emanating out AND radiating in. The material world being both the originator of these forces while also being created and molded by them.

 

But also and ultimately all are connected and interconnected in the never-ending flow of permanence and impermanence. All material things creating waves, forces which bind us, repel us, link us together – the actions not purely physical, but metaphysical – existing in a plane we cannot see, but sometimes experience.

 

As Eric Cunningham posits, “One is very cautious about drawing any deep conclusion concerning what all this [Zen Gardening] ‘means,’ knowing that meanings will change.”[ii]

 

But this revelation strikes me as truth in a moment where so many seek to separate and divide us. We are connected in more ways than we can imagine and it seems wise to act like we are.

 

4/3/26

 

---

[i] https://www.asianstudies.org/publications/eaa/archives/cultivating-enlightenment-the-manifold-meaning-of-japanese-zen-gardens/#:~:text=Although%20Zen%20gardens%20as%20landscape,faithful”%20into%20a%20metaphysical%20space.

[ii] Ibid.

 

Gardening

Photo credit here.

 For a moment today, I felt unscheduled, free to sit in the sun or lounge in the shade. I had no “to-do” list, no task pressing me for attention. My cortisol levels dropped precipitously, my mind blank and only open to the present moment.

 

Earlier in the day, we parked a little over a mile from the local botanical gardens, then walked and jogged over to the Japanese garden to catch what was left of the cherry blossoms. On the walk back, we stopped for coffee, meandered across a creek, kept searching for Jack in the Pulpit along every leaf covered hillside. Nothing was pushed or pressing. The temperature in dappled shade fell just shy of perfect, the humidity obviously on Spring Break with everyone else.

 

Currently, J is house and pet sitting, so after our excursion I joined him for the midday release of the pup. The back yard of the house contains a pool, Adirondack chairs, loungers, a cast iron dining set and several large umbrellas. I opened an umbrella up after dipping my feet in the pool, shading my upper body while exposing my legs and feet to the sun. In the quiet warmth of their back yard, all other tasks melted away. 

 

We drove back home for lunch, and my brain cranked back up with the lists: the Work list, the House list, the Yard list, the Trip list, etc. The gift of gardening lies in its absolute insistence – if a garden happens at all, the seeds must be started in the spring or the bulbs must be planted in the fall or the pruning must happen after (or before) the plant flowers. The garden has to have water, appropriate soil, sunlight, spacing. Weeds cannot get the upper hand; mulching will help every plant’s and person’s nerves. 

 

So despite other lists, the Yard list took priority and I spent the afternoon planting seeds for giant sunflowers, Rose of Sharon, basil, cilantro (hope it’s not too late!), tomatoes, carrots, zucchini, okra, and eggplant. I dreamed of where the seedlings may go in the yard and how to create space for them. I took out plants from the basement, so they can begin their spring transformations. I weeded around returning azaleas, hosta, black-eyed susans and crepe myrtle. I doted over returning day lilies, swamp irises and star-gazers. I wondered how best to reign in pushy canna lilies in one part of my yard and how best to spur their growth in another. I hoped the peony at the corner of the porch would bloom this year.

 

By four o’clock, I began to clean up the remaining tools and ended by cleaning up myself. Now, after dinner, I’m sitting on the porch with my vigilant Maltese enjoying the transition from bird song to crickets in the slow decent of the spring sun. 

 

I’m grateful for these days which slip from task to taskless, which whisper promises of bright yellow heads heavy with seeds or the sweet burst of a perfectly ripe tomato, while reminding me to care for what is most important right now. I pray that I am and trust in grace and mercy for the rest. 

 

3/26/26

Different

Photo credit here.

 

3/21/25

The Process of Becoming

Photo credit here.

Little comes out wholly itself.
Even a seed must be formed bit
By painstakingly long bit and
Even then its journey continues.

 

Is it food? 

Does it feed off another?

May it wait for yet another type of seed

Which by combining 

becomes something new.

 

The hazelnut contains the universe – 

The work of millennia formed and 

Transformed into this tiny seed.

 

Give it soil, rain, sunlight – 

The nut transforms into something

Quite different – larger, broader

Containing multitudes of itself

For all of time (maybe).

 

All the tree releases from itself – 

Gases to fill the air, 

Nitrogen to feed the soil

 

As it dies it decomposes into hummus and fungi

Decomposes into 

Soil and spore and molecule.

 

The world below and the sky above

Filled again by what had been

One tiny seed, by what had been

Universe.

 

So what of my short life?

The lesson may be not so much

All my transformation

But mostly I am stardust as much

As I am flesh and

To stardust I will return.

 

The vanity of life

Its crowning glory:

The whisper of eternity

In each breath,

Each turning of a life.

 

Writer’s Workshop, 11/16/25

Sweetness and Gall

Photo credit here.

J and I surveyed the damage from the pine in the early morning light. Later in the day inspections confirmed the ramp and gutter damage, but part of the facia board and some places on the roof sustained damage, too. The “kaboom” of the tree’s felling turned out to be its bounce. From what we can tell, as the momentum stopped, part of the trunk hit the ground, splattered debris along the right side of the house and left a perfect imprint of itself a foot in front of the hedge. The bounce took it toward the road to its final resting place. Maybe the torn cables encouraged its “away-from-the-house” trajectory.

We discovered our insurance deductibles vary depending on the cause of damage to the house. Surprise! So the damage from the tree may cost us twice the amount of having taken the tree down to begin with. Lesson learned, I guess. 

 

The pine remains fragrant and as I walked around it this afternoon, the pine scent mixing with the tulip magnolia’s perfume was a lovely serendipity. I stood there: A mangled tree, mangled roof, mangled cable lines dropped by some toddler-giant forgetting himself as the next, better toy called. My eyes viewing mud, pine branches, rotted roots and then my nose caught the sweet scent of spring married with winter’s cologne – a birth brought out of death – a phoenix rising. 

 

As with many posts, I don’t know where I will go once I start, and often I have to start to know where I was meant to go in the first place. I think tonight I need the reminder to pay attention through all my senses – to not miss the sweetness while taking in all the gall. 

 

3/10/25

 

Loblolly Pines

Photo credit here.

Pines provide the boundary for our property and have since I was a child. My great grandfather seemingly cleared this land for farming, then my grandfather took over the few acres given to him when he married Granny. In elementary school, a neighboring house stood at a distance from ours, surrounded by woods, mainly Loblolly Pines. As a teenager, the family who owned the house sold the land to someone who created a subdivision and all the pines disappeared – the land scalped, the earth paved over. 

Across the street a similar story: one home on the hillside, surrounded by woods. Then a sale and bald earth and finally a subdivision with two and three-story homes. Some of the pines remained, but most were gone. 

 

When we moved back to my home place 5 ½ years ago, my aunt and uncle removed one, maybe two, of the pines at the roadway. Mom, Dad, J and I sat on our porch watching the theatrics and death-defying stunts of the tree removal crew. I sensed sadness for all the years of life felled in a few hours. The tree had definitely watched over the land when my grandparents still thought of growing old; watched when my mom and dad first kissed; watched as our home was built bit-by-bit by my father. 

 

Little is a stately and grand as a Loblolly Pine, decades old, wide and thick, branches reaching towards the sky. A giant reminding you how small you truly are. A teacher of how to weather storms. A sage whispering “carpe diem, your life, Little One, is brief.”

 

When our neighbor asked if we would remove one of our Loblollies a couple of years ago, I simply could not do it. I have watched the skyline since childhood and these trees have been a part of it. It seemed wrong to simply cut it down. . .

well tonight, it chose to take itself out. Or maybe the high winds helped it make up its mind. 

 

I heard cracks and pops for a bit, just outside the office window. I thought the wind was blowing debris against the house. These noises occurred on and off for five to ten minutes. Then a loud crack followed by the shaking of the house. I met my husband’s startled face in the hallway. Something big had happened. 

 

We went outside to see the pine draped across our front lawn and the ramp for my dad. The scent of pine fragranced the air while bent gutters spilled water onto the hedges. For tonight, it is the only damage – and miraculously so. 

 

I will miss the tree, though maybe not its yellow pollen. I wonder if this tree produced the large pine cones of wonder which litter the yard and drive? Maybe I will investigate tomorrow. 

 

But tonight, I offer this eulogy: 

Thank you, pine, 

    For providing shade, for giving us pine straw for our garden beds

    For being a resting place for birds, a playground for squirrels, a haven for the blue-tailed                 skinks (who are anything but Common)

    For providing enough edges for cicadas to shed their skins, enough grooves to commute ant         colonies and enough natural wood for busy carpenter bees. 

May you rest in peace. 

3/9/26

Wonder(ing)

 

Photo credit here.

How did the universes begin? By a spoken Word over “waters” – things that are NOT becoming manifest by breath and voice? 

 

If so, where did the waters begin? In the belly of God – an artery cut open to bring about life?

 

Does the serpent swallow its tail,

Spinning time in endless loops

Until the flick of creation

Telescopes a spiral

Reaching to eternity?

 

Or maybe the learned ones know best

A single atom

Exploding with instability;

Then opposites attracting

And coalescing

Swirling together and

Settling into non-ending expansion

 

All of us stardust

Matter to the matter that is us

And then to pass through and onto

Some other galaxy light years away.

 

A burden of questions

Known only as (in?) mystery

Inviting us to embrace

Wonder.

 

Writer’s Workshop, July 2025

Hints of Spring

 

Photo credit here.

The sky turned a deeper blue today

Its back toward winter’s edge

Spinning the waves of light

Through new angles

Particles bouncing

Back and forth

Up and down

Creating

This

Moment

Chlorophyll,

Rods and Cones

Chemicals moving

Into brown, gray matter

To create a flood of colors

Overtaking by wavelengths only

Imagined in winter’s wildest dream

3/3/26

Denali Trail Tale, Finale

Photo credit here.

 

Latitude 63 in July does not leave much time for darkness. As soon as the girmen closed their eyes, the wakening dawn nudged them. 

 

While the hours of hiking helped aid their slumber, sleeping on a thin Therm-a-Rest camping “mattress” on gravelly and pebbled terrain did nothing to encourage a shift of position to continue the night’s rest. Compounding the issue, the eyes respond to light, setting off a chemical reaction in the brain which brings the whole body to life. 

 

The McKinley River percolated around them, and they eventually reached for the zippers to greet the morning properly. As they righted themselves after crawling out of their tents, they found themselves face-to-face with Denali. It was as if the mountain saw all the effort they made to arrive at its base, so graced them by standing boldly before them – snow its only covering, reflecting the light so intensely its peaks seemed to glow. 

 

They stood attempting to fix the moment in their minds. The girmen meant for the camping adventure to lead them to bears, but the wilderness meant for them to stand awestruck before the highest mountain in North America. 

 

Their revery lasted some moments before the next thing had to be done. It was getting the food down and over for breakfast, then breaking down the tents, packing all the gear back into packs and finally beginning the trek back up the hillside toward the road. 

 

Nothing particularly noteworthy happened on the trip back up. The mosquitos buzzed around them, small helicopters crashing into skin, mouth, eyes. Remarkably, they ran into another hiker – a solo hiker – his head covered in mosquito netting. He knew Jen’s roommate somehow and became an unofficial 5^th wheel. They all appreciated another focus for their conversation. 

The hiker wore a “pith helmet” with netting hanging from the brim’s edge and draping his shoulders. The girmen had heeded the advice to “bathe” in DEET, but with the clear day, the humidity and the exercise inherent in carrying a 20 pound pack up a hillside, the DEET seeped into their eyes and mouths, stinging and souring them in turn. Had they been hiking further; they might have heeded the baser instincts of the survival of the fittest, tore the hat from his head, then argued and fought over the hat until one conquered the rest. 

 

Instead, they knew the road, and civilization, lay just above the horizon, and they pushed forward. Once returned to some semblance of a road, they sat on their packs beaming at their accomplishment. They had braved the wild of Alaska and returned intact. They would not be a headline or cautionary tale. Instead, they would eat their lunch and wait for the school bus returning to the park’s entrance, swatting mosquitos and aching for a soft bed.

 

2/27/26

Denali Trail Tale, part 3

Photo credit here.

An adage in orienting goes something like this, “It’s further than it appears. It’ll take longer than you imagine. And it’s harder than you may suspect.” 

 

None of the less experienced girmen thought a trip across the tundra might entail the snail-like pace and danger to life and limb it did. Seriously, it looked like a golden beach dotted with spruce – a carpet spread out before the mountains. How long could the trip down the hillside and across the plain take? Denali was RIGHT THERE, and the McKinley Bar was just before Denali – piece of cake!

Photo credit here.

But, no – no piece of cake. 

 

While not intuitive, the heat of July in Alaska covers the body like a wet blanket. The Southerner grew up in hot humidity, so the beads of sweat on her forehead and neck felt familiar. Her companions had no such familiarity. They cursed the weight of water (and having to carry it) but delighted in its presence as the day grew on. 

 

Jen’s roommate kept them on the correct path, keeping Denali to the left and finding as much tundra as possible to maintain good visuals. The other three mainly followed, initially buzzing with stories and excitement and then, as the day’s hiking wore on them, fell silent with muffled grunts and the occasional curse as yet another something snagged their clothing, or worse, their skin. 

 

Daylight in July shortens by several minutes daily in Alaska, but the days remain long. While the girmen hiked until the sun began to set, it was still closer to 10pm when they finally arrived at the McKinley Bar. Here, at last, was the beach they had dreamed of – at least a beach of a kind. While bits were gravelly, large river stones (baseball-sized or slightly larger) covered the ground. They were elated to have made it this far, but in camping, there is always more to do.

 

They needed to keep their food 100 yards from their camp (and 50 feet off the ground) and 100 yards from the area where they planned to eat. The eating area and camping area also needed to be 100 yards apart. So they looked for trees near the beach, but also a more gravelly area 100 yards away for sleep. As an added bonus, the trees provided cover for hygiene and bathroom needs. 

 

They found something more gravelly, less rocky far enough away from the trees and within a few feet of the McKinley River. Some parts of the river were clearer and good for water purification. They set up their 2 tents and Jen’s roommate secured the food. They ate something cold, then headed to bed. 

 

The waters surrounding Denali hummed by their tents, the voices of nature pooled together and singing their enchantments over the landscape. No other sounds drifted into their hearing. As the sun dipped below the horizon, and with no other lights for competition, the Milky Way spread out it treasures freely, with abandon. No other night had been so silent or so filled with language. 

 

And with Mother Earth cooing over them, they floated off to sleep.  

 

(To Be Continued)

 

2/26/26

Denali Trail Tale, part 2

Photo credit here.

The bus left them, kicking up dust from the dirt and gravel park road. The girmen (girl-women) covered their mouths and noses with shirts and began looking for the best place to begin the hike down toward the McKinley Bar. Fortunately, the mountain was out that day, so orienting proved effortless, to a point. Then came the dense brush with willow bushes high above their heads. Jen’s roommate guided them through the stand, until they reached a clearing. 

 

About a hundred yards down the slope they could see Jen’s dream come true: A grizzly stood in the tundra, its gaze looking toward them just as they came into view. The park rangers told everyone in those days to try and scare the bears away. Waving one’s hands, attempting to look bigger and yelling would ignite a bear’s natural instinct to stay way from humans. If those tactics failed, then covering as many body parts as possible (particularly the neck and head) while curling into a tight ball and playing dead was the next best option.

 

Jen began waving her hands in the air and half-singing, half-yelling, “Hey, Mister Bear!” The rest of the girmen joined in waving and yelling and even jumping up and down. 

 

To their relief, the bear turned and began running toward the mountain. . .then three fluffy dots trailed behind her. A MAMA BEAR! They watched her cover more ground in 5 minutes than they could in the next 3 hours. They stared at each other in disbelief while their knees wobbled and the packs suddenly weighed twice what they had before. Mama grizzlies strike terror in hikers who know, because mama grizzlies do not play with the safety of their cubs. They will fight to the death.

 

As they continued to hike downward, they rehearsed their good fortune and kept a sharp eye out for any more bears. 

 

After several hours of walking through the tundra, they met their next obstacle: a river. Because of their glacial origins, the river’s water remains icy cold and filled with glacial sediment. Coming from thousands of feet above, the waters move swiftly. Because of the silt, one never knows how deep the water is and some get swept away. 

Photo credit here.

 

Jen’s roommate knew this well, so she oversaw the reconfiguration of packs to keep everything hip height or above. The Southwesterner was tall and had somewhat more experience camping and had forded a stream at least once, so she got more gear while Jen and the Southerner got less. They discussed strategy for successfully reaching the other side, namely linking arms and holding tightly to each other while carefully securing each step less someone slip and take them all downstream. 

 

Jen’s roommate scouted the river’s edge to find what she guessed was the best place to cross. Then they lined up: The roommate, Jen, the Southerner and then the Southwesterner. The water froze them immediately and with each step, they went deeper into the current. They yelped and screamed but kept inching toward the other side. 

 

Wet from hips to toes, they emerged victorious and shivering. They spent a few moments taking off their boots and wringing out their socks. The Southerner was amazed by the glacial sludge and its ability to color everything. Gray water poured from her socks, the bright clover green of her Merrell boots turned murky, her white cotton thermal underwear, a dull gray which never washed out. 

 

Then they put socks and shoes back on and moved on. They had miles to go before dark.

 

(To Be Continued)

2/25/26

Lunar Bodies

Photo credit here.

We are lunar bodies

Beginning in darkness 

We wait

the light

shining steadily upon us

Growing bold,

fat with ourselves

Luminous

Against the darkness

Shrinking back

bit by sickled bit

the value of retreat

and emptying

finally understood

Light removed

realizing unity with

a universe

which whispers

of all that lies beyond.

-April 3, 2025, inspired by Magic City Poetry Festival

 

Snippets

 

Photo credit here.

I don't know if this is what Isaiah meant by streams in the desert - the barren landscape flush with unexpected color - green and yellow, pink and white - but maybe it is an iteration of it.

Isaiah (or Deutero Isaiah or whomever) speaks of binding that which is broken, of strengthening that which is weak and somehow, by taking steps toward the reversal of fortunes, the unexpected takes root and blooms in barrenness - the warmth of summer juxtaposed against the snows of winter.

A baby becomes the King, a lion grows to be the Lamb, a star in the night sky brightens to be The Light of the World. 

"Have you not seen, have you not heard, how God has reversed the fortunes of God's people?

- Written around November 2019, like as part of a devotional for Central Lex

Tree Talking II

The tree stood sloped upward at the edge of the yard. It grew long with the setting sun, reaching toward the house, granting respite from another sweltering day - or may it was rain - it's hard to remember.

The tree had stood guard over rows of corn and squash, the squeals of children hanging from swing sets, the death defying tricks on a trampoline with no pads or webbing to insure safety.

It watched the man in overalls with his donkey plowing the fields and later the same man with a tractor. It heard the cluck of chickens feeding on grain, laying eggs. It gasped each time the crack of a breaking neck reverberated on the wind.

The tree took in the smoke of a hundred fires: the ones for singeing the soft down off a chicken, the ones clearing to ash a stack of debris, and the small ones in the cigarettes the boys smoked discretely behind the barn - high on their maturity and sophistication. 

When the house burned it watched the embers glow upward on drafts, then scatter on the ground. It felt sprays caught on the wind from the fire hoses and was grateful for how the night cooled.

These moments imprinted on its rings - the internalization of all the decades of activity: famine and harvest, glee and wailing, birth and death. An observer, but also a container of the passage of time, lasting longer than any of its human counterparts. An old soul, whispering its secrets in the language of leaves blowing in the wind. 

Stand near it in stillness, and calm your soul.

- Writer's Workshop, July 2024

A Night's Welcome

 

Do I welcome the night

as wholly as the day?

 

Tonight, I did

By accident

Working on the plans

of daytime

It slowly passed away

Dipping into the earth

bit by lighted bit

until the horizon

hummed blue

It’s oxygen waning.

Then a breeze

danced around my ears

Followed by the quiet

of cars no longer driven

Grasshoppers trying out

their legs’ vibration

on waves of twilight…

 

So maybe, I did not

welcome the night

Though it certainly welcomed me

Encouraging my own 

long exhale

as my waking body

embraces the dreamy night

and slips into its own

Oblivion

- March 25, 2025

Resurrection

Photo credit here.

To Mom

The cherry spoke your name;

haloed by the sun,

a thousand angel wings

shimmering -

The blush of red bud,

pierced squares of dogwood,

party hat fronds clinging

to loropetalum.

My teammate once

scoffed at your many,

many pictures of trees

wondering a loud why

You loved them so.

Now, it's obvious she

did not understand,

had no appreciation of

Resurrection.

Now I do.

Until we met again.

I love you.

Gratitude

art by Sarah Juniper Greene, more of her work here.

One family member with whom I spoke said repeatedly she could not do "X" because it was closed today. Initially, I didn't understand why, and then I remembered it was Good Friday. Even days set aside for "holiness" become mundane if not observed or if no attention is paid to them. And while I doubt the NYSE traders took today to meditate on Christ's sacrifice, having the time set aside reminds some of us to try and take the time to engage in gratitude or reflect in praise.

I've done neither, not for Christ's sacrifice. I engaged in gratitude and reflected in praise as I came home from work, on time and with no lingering items to complete once I arrived home. I took a walk with J in the neighborhood park, naming cardinals and herons, admiring the restructuring of a backyard, staying close lipped around hordes of gnats frolicking in the lengthening light. I flirted with dogs along the path, waved at unknown drivers swinging wide around us, admired the unfurling of the red maple's leaves. 

And maybe coming to some conclusion about the equality of celebrating Christ and celebrating the world for which Christ died is too convenient. But if the world was created by Christ, and Christ came to save/rescue/redeem/resurrect it, maybe enjoying its beauty and finding gratitude for its splendor is as honoring to Christ's sacrifice as honoring Christ's sacrifice specifically.

I think God smiles as we smile, sings as we sing and celebrates as we celebrate, so blessings on Good Friday. May Christ be glorified in all of our gratitude.

PRACTICE

Lectio Divina: Read the following passage through after a few deep breaths and pay attention to any word or phrase which sticks out for you. Read through again and pay attention to anything further you notice about the word/phrase and how it applies to you. Read through again and spend time in prayer with the word/phrase asking God what you need to understand/know/do with the word/phrase (i.e., How might God be guiding you? What needs your further action? Where may your understanding need to be changed or expanded? How may this impact your relationship with someone else?). End with a time of thanksgiving. 

John 3:13-21

13 No one has ascended into heaven except the one who descended from heaven, the Son of Man. 14 And just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, 15 that whoever believes in him may have eternal life.

16 “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.

17 “Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world but in order that the world might be saved through him. 18 Those who believe in him are not condemned, but those who do not believe are condemned already because they have not believed in the name of the only Son of God.19 And this is the judgment, that the light has come into the world, and people loved darkness rather than light because their deeds were evil. 20 For all who do evil hate the light and do not come to the light, so that their deeds may not be exposed. 21 But those who do what is true come to the light, so that it may be clearly seen that their deeds have been done in God.”

Tree Talking

What is it like
to be a pine
planted by God or mother earth
in southern clay?

 

Bursting forth from germinated seed 

Growing year,

After year…

After year, tall into the sky

 

Losing friends, sisters, brothers

Land cleared and farms tilled

The barn with its cow and chickens

The house, its husband, wife and 3 kids

 

And still, to stand and welcome 

squirrels, hawks, and bark-prickling ants,

To hold the morning and evening sun,

the angry atmosphere's gusts.

 

Then one day

The saw, the ax, the crane

A tribe of men attacking

What would rather not attack back

 

No longer breaking the soil in root

holding the Wisteria,

giving the redhead food

or a backyard shade

 

Instead, with precision cuts,

The rings of time exposed

And it is felled

Never to rise again.

Eyes Open

Picture credit

I'm enjoying my eyes-open centering prayer practice. My life pushed me into it, though. When I first learned about centering prayer/meditation, I had traveled to the Hudson River Valley and ensconced myself in a Benedictine monastery there (with about 20-30 people from my theological seminary). In an ancient basement room, arches of stone creating column-obscuring views, we were taught to sit, with eyes closed, and focus on God. Nary a worldly or bodily distraction should shift us, and if an unwanted itch or slight pinch arose, acknowledge it and let the sensation go.

Later, when I sat in a centering prayer circle in Memphis, a similar exhortation came. With both feet on the ground, hands comfortably on legs or chair, our eyes were to close and all focus be on God regardless of what the body or world around us may do. Later still, during another educational adventure, a professor taught Eastern Meditation with similar guidance: sit still, eyes closed and see what floats down the river of consciousness and let it go, and focus again on breath, on being.

The preponderance of teachers saying the same thing about similar practices usually means the wisdom of time and practice lays a foundation which imparts the benefit of the exercise. In other words, no need to upset the apple cart, but. . .

When barre class runs late, or it's Friday and Krispy Kreme *must* be purchased, and the faithful group of "simple presence" practitioners meet promptly at 6:30. . .well, centering prayer becomes wrapped with visions of Shades Creek gurgling under the bridge, the emergence of red maple leaves, the greening of the tulip magnolia. Prayer also converges with sparrow song, cawing crows, shrieking hawks and the flurry of bird activity hailing the rising sun.  Cool air, the scent of cherry blossoms, the sickly green coat of pine pollen weave their own tapestry of story, of yearning, of praise - and God ceases to exist in the singular space behind my closed lids and expands to fill all the "circling spheres." 

I've sensed the whisper to watch, feel, listen, smell and taste God in the center of all of my life: the active moving parts AND the quiet, sitting still ones. 

PRACTICE

Lectio Divina: Read the following passage through after a few deep breaths and pay attention to any word or phrase which sticks out for you. Read through again and pay attention to anything further you notice about the word/phrase and how it applies to you. Read through again and spend time in prayer with the word/phrase asking God what you need to understand/know/do with the word/phrase (i.e., How might God be guiding you? What needs your further action? Where may your understanding need to be changed or expanded? How may this impact your relationship with someone else?). End with a time of thanksgiving. 

Psalm 24:1-2, NRSV

Entrance into the Temple

Of David. A Psalm.

1 The earth is the Lord’s and all that is in it,
    the world, and those who live in it,
2 for he has founded it on the seas
    and established it on the rivers.

Listening

Photo credit: here.

I listened to birds squawk today, and as I listened I thought, "God even calls this 'good'." The cawing of sea gulls - "good." The cackle of crows - "good." The aggressive nature of cow birds - "good." The idea can expand, of course, to any and all parts of creation I, or anyone else, calls suspect, apprehensible, a nuisance: mosquitoes, raccoons, chipmunks, pythons, coyotes, deer, brown recluses, sharks, jellyfish - the list could be quite long. This goes for places, peoples, political regimes, cultures (micro and macro). God called it all, all of us, "good," if you take the first creation story at face value. I have a hard time accepting this, however, when the 4th welp rises from my skin within moments of venturing outside, or when my brother displays his penchant for desecrating his life. 

Of course it's not my issue, except if I come down with denque fever (a growing outbreak of the mosquito born virus is happening in Brazil right now); or a python swallows my dog; or the intoxicated man kills my daughter via vehicular homicide - then what do I do? How do I call the creation "good"? What theological gymnastics do I perform to make the equation creation = good actually work out? 

The only way I can (and get ready to roll your eyes) is creation + God = good. Because the only entity who is good is God, and God in us creates what good bits exist. As an old pastor of mine used to say, "We are shot through with sin, but we are justified through Christ: Just as if I'd done nothing wrong. Just as if I'd done everything right." How this applies to mosquitos, I'm not sure, but Paul talks about all of creation and birth pangs as we all move from our current state to our eschatologically complete one.

Maybe one day mosquitos will impart anti-aging serum into my resurrected body with each bite while the lion lays down with the lamb.

My other bird related musing came when I witnessed a sparrow feast on the fern-like growth of an ancient oak. "Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father. And even the hairs of your head are all counted. So do not be afraid; you are of more value than many sparrows (Matthew 10:29-31)." I conflated this with "Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they (Matthew 6:26)?"

As I wrestle with options (and I am grateful to have them), the little sparrows teach me about trust, about freedom, about being valued and loved by God. The little bird whispers, "There is enough, you are enough. Quiet yourself and follow the movement of God within you and the movement of God outside of you." As I tell people who want to learn to listen, the first step is to actually listen, not be planning what you may say next. I find as I listen to God, I recognize how God listens to us (all of creation), which begins the "conversation" about abundance.

So be it.

PRACTICE

Lectio Divina: Read the following passage through after a few deep breaths and pay attention to any word or phrase which sticks out for you. Read through again and pay attention to anything further you notice about the word/phrase and how it applies to you. Read through again and spend time in prayer with the word/phrase asking God what you need to understand/know/do with the word/phrase (i.e., How might God be guiding you? What needs your further action? Where may your understanding need to be changed or expanded? How may this impact your relationship with someone else?). End with a time of thanksgiving. 

Matthew 6: 25-34

25 “Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink,[k] or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food and the body more than clothing? 26 Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? 27 And which of you by worrying can add a single hour to your span of life?[l] 28 And why do you worry about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin, 29 yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these. 30 But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which is alive today and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you—you of little faith? 31 Therefore do not worry, saying, ‘What will we eat?’ or ‘What will we drink?’ or ‘What will we wear?’ 32 For it is the gentiles who seek all these things, and indeed your heavenly Father knows that you need all these things. 33 But seek first the kingdom of God[m] and his[n]righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.

34 “So do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own. Today’s trouble is enough for today.