Day 2: Reminder to go to my waterfall

I am reading Gregory Maguire's Wicked, the Wizard of Oz story told from the witch's perspective. I've been a fan of the Oz books since I was little, and have been collecting the beautiful old hardcovers for a few years. Maquire's version is rather dark and joyless, so why I'm persevering through it was a mystery until last night. Before falling asleep I read the quote below, and am now contemplating the connection between the waterfall of my imagiplation:

"I had a Lives of the Saints" once. Saint Aelphaba of the Waterfall--she was a Munchkinlander mystic, six or seven centuries ago. Don't you remember? She wanted to pray, but she was of such beauty that the local men kept pestering her for... attention."

"To preserve her sanctity, she went into the wilderness with her holy scriptures and a single bunch of grapes. Wild beasts threatened her, and wild men hunted after her, and she was sore distressed. Then she came upon a huge waterfall coursing off a cliff. She said, "This is my cave," and took off all her clothes, and she walked right through the screen of pounding water. Beyond was a cavern hollowed out by the splashing water. She sat down there, and in the light that came through the wall of water she read her holy book and pondered on spiritual matters. She ate a grape every now and then. When at last she had finished her grapes, she emerged from the cave. Hundreds of years had passed. There was a village built on the banks of the stream, and even a mill dam nearby. The villagers shrank in horror, for as children they had all played in the cavern behind the waterfall--lovers had trysted there--murders and foul deeds had taken place there--treasure had been buried there--and never had anyone ever seen Saint Aelphaba in her naked beauty. But all Saint Aelphaba had to do was open her mouth and speak the old speech, and they all knew that it must be she, and they built a chapel in her honor. She blessed the children and the elderly, and heard the confessions of the middle-aged, and healed some sick and fed some hungry, that sort of stuff, and then disappeared behind the waterfall again with another bunch of grapes. I think a bigger bunch this time. And that's the last anyone has seen of her."

There are a number of connections to my contemplative waterfall experiences. I also go behind the coursing water to a cavern that is lit. I also go to pray, though in my case Yeshua meets me there. I am also naked, though it is the purging waters that strip away my clothing. I also am strengthened by my time there, to better perform His works of ministry and charity.

I think that His gift of this passage lies in further contemplation of what it said about time, given that time weighs heavily at present. I think He is saying that if I spend time with Him behind the waterfall that He created for me, time will pass much more quickly in the "other" world. The "real" world.

This is confirmation of my beloved priest's urging as well.

It is a good gift.

Day 1 of a month-long voyage

I've decided to dedicate the next month to exploration of God's communication with me, and am committing myself to capturing the key message He delivers each day.

Figure if I put it out before you, my beloved reader, that I will actually do it.

So, here goes for day 1.

A dear friend has been struggling through the startup of a new ministry. The leaders of the ministry have faced a number of trials throughout the process, and one woman struggles particularly with discouragement. As my friend prayed about what she was to do to help this woman and the ministry overall, she heard from God that she should trust Him and get out of the boat. Her initial response was that she was to withdraw from leadership; that the boat was the ministry and that she was to exit it and let Him work out the details.

In typical style, she dropped that bombshell on me via text message, and then wouldn't answer my phone calls. She said she was about to send off an email about it. I pleaded via text that she slow down and pray more, not having any details about what she had heard in prayer.

The email didn't come through, and she eventually did call and fill me in. In talking with her more about Matthew 14:22-33, I pointed out that Peter did the opposite of what she would be doing. He stepped out of the relative calm and protection of the boat and into the unknown and fearful wild. Into the turmoil and drama. If she left the ministry, she would be leaving the drama instead of entering it and trusting Yeshua to bring her through. He said to Peter, and says to her, "Why did you doubt?"

The reality is that God's desire is for the discouraged woman to recognize the attacks of the evil one and begin to develop strategies for fighting them off. He desires increased freedom for her, and will grow her into that freedom through this ministry. And my friend is part of that journey toward freedom. She plays a key role in this woman's life, at this time and place. But she must walk out upon the troubled waters, and expect the miraculous to result from her obedience.

Oh, and by the way; the reason I didn't receive her resignation email? Her keyboard began acting up, and some of the keys wouldn't work. One of them was the letter "H", the first letter in the name of the ministry, and it's acronym, which she tried to type.

So what did I learn from this, on Day 1 of my own voyage of discovery? That God is -so- in charge.

Distraction welcome...

I am busy. And glad to be so.

Do you wonder at my silence?

If I begin to speak of my love for you
I may not be able to stop.

--Chantelle Franc

Creation reveals the mind of its creator

"To a mind attuned to observation and deduction, the product reveals the mind of its creator. ... Take Mozart--frenzied gaiety and weeping put to music. The agony of the man is at times unbearable."

Sarah McLachlan: I Love You (song lyrics)

(Listen here.)

I have a smile
stretched from ear to ear
to see you walking down the road.

We meet at the lights
I stare for a while
the world around us disappears.

It's just you and me
on my island of hope
a breath between us could be miles.

Let me surround you
my sea to your shore
let me be the calm you seek.

Oh and every time
I'm close to you
there's too much I can't say
and you just walk away.

And I forgot
to tell you
I love you.
And the night's too long
and cold here without you.
I grieve in my condition
for I cannot find the words to say I need you so.

Oh and every time
I'm close to you
there's too much I can't say
and you just walk away.

And I forgot
to tell you
I love you.
And the night's too long
and cold here
without you.
I grieve in my condition
For I cannot find the words to say I need you so.

Day and Night

My heart yowls like a cat in maddened heat.

--Chantelle Franc

The bitter and the sweet

I'm looking back on a week that has been both bitter and sweet, and thinking about the Passover Seder. Liturgy and ritual are so very satisfying for entering into the richness of God's plan for us.

In this Seder we ceremonially partake of Maror, the bitter herbs which symbolize the bitterness of slavery. When done right (by my book,) the bright sharpness of horseradish makes your eyes water and your nose run. No mild, dull ache for me, but a sudden harsh slap of reality, the pain of which lingers on the tongue.

Later in the meal we dip the matzo in Charoset, a sweet mixture of apples, nuts, and cinnamon.

Still later, we eat matzo with both horseradish -and- Charoset, mixing the bitter and the sweet.

That has been my week; the sharp bite of reality softened by gentle tastes of sweetness. The two co-mingling.

Actually, it's been the tenor of the last few years, the bitter and the sweet dancing in and out, taking turns, intermingling, becoming harder and harder to separate.

Lord, thank you for the sweetness. Thank you for the bitterness. Thank you for the dance.

Ain't it the truth

I generally avoid temptation unless I can't resist it.

-- Mae West

May he have rest

It has been a challenging week for my beloved priest, and while he for the most part lives nestled in Christ's peace, I can't help but want prayer for him during times of potential discouragement like this.

I thought about him this morning, and how he truly stands in persona Christi, in the person of Christ, for us. Just as we consume Christ at the mass, we consume this, our priest. We approach him day in and day out with our complaints and our demands, our sorrows and our hungers, and we eat him alive with very little gratitude. As if we are deserving of the gift of his life to us.

And like Christ, he says "It's all right. I love you."

And he means it.

But his eyes are tired. His very being must be tired.

I pray he may feel our love returned, and rest.

Since you asked

You are
a strong hand
a shouted truth
a bar raised

You are
shelter on a stormy night
a cozy lap
a whispered prayer

You are
friend, lover, champion
hero, teacher, student
thinker, dreamer, muse

You are
escape, release, rescue
comfort, confidante, joy

You are
an undiscovered feast
an untried banquet
a laden table, beckoning

You are
dream made man

--Chantelle Franc

Red red wine

The other night I found myself longing for the softening effects of my old friend red wine in a way I haven't for months. Red wines had a particular type of soporific reality blurring that I preferred over my other friends; tequila and vodka. Quality didn't matter much; I never developed into an oenophile, or for that matter, an alcoholic (despite my diligent pursuit).

So as the afternoon wore on and a sweet sadness filled my spirit, I longed for the old familiar red wine haze. I had a glass or two, and found that it didn't perform as remembered. Instead, dishwashing drove the sadness away for a bit. It's back of course, and is destined to be present for some time to come.

It is what it is.

But I learned that you can't go home again. Not even to a lair in the Burgundy depths of a bottle.

I'm gonna miss you

I'm gonna miss you like a child misses their blanket.

--Fergie

Sweetest discoveries

In the sorest trials God often makes the sweetest discoveries of Himself.

-- Author Unknown

Wonder is the root of all knowledge

Wonder rather than doubt is the root of all knowledge.

--Abraham Joshua Heschel

Craving the light of God

He who is satisfied has never truly craved, and he who craves for the light of God neglects his ease for ardor.

--Abraham Joshua Heschel

Martha plus Judas does not equal Mary

Last night one of our lovely young deacons greeted me by saying that he knew with certainty that God was very, very pleased with me.

That was his greeting. The first words he spoke to me.

He is a gentle, sweet spirit, and was undoubtedly encouraging my propensity toward operating ala Martha. And it did encourage me.

But it also convicted me.

It's bad enough that I congratulate myself for my Martha busyness, neglecting to be Mary in the process. But in prayer this morning I realized something even worse; I also use my Martha to justify my Judas. As if the good works that I do somehow counterbalance the evil that I do.

But it doesn't work that way.

My works are good, and He is pleased by them. As this morning's 1 Samuel passage read, He remembers the prayers prayed and the alms offered. But they can't compare in weight to the sin. It's not a balancing act. The loving touches that a wife abuser offers do not lesson the damage and shame of the punches. Just the opposite; they become a mockery of what should be beautiful.

So this morning was a time of gentle chiding. He is so very gentle with me.

He wants more of my attention. More of the attention I direct toward objects which are indeed lovely, but less lovely than He.

I am encouraged by the quote I posted earlier today; I work toward obedience through the gift of faith God has granted me, and I hope for the bloom of patience upon it.

Obedience is the fruit of faith

Obedience is the fruit of faith; patience, the bloom on the fruit.

--Rossetti

(This was good for me to hear today.)

Not so sweet...

Sometimes it feels like going on vacation just isn't worth it. I'm back in the saddle and getting clubbed.

The promise of apple blossoms

I woke thinking about the fall of Adam and Eve, and of how certainly I would make the same choice that they did.

I thought about the beauty of God's creation, and of the splendor of that first garden and all that was in it. And I wondered about that tree; how lovely must it have been?

It must have been very lovely indeed.

I took a look at what the scriptures had to say:

Gen. 3:6 When the woman saw that the fruit of the tree was good for food and pleasing to the eye, and also desirable for gaining wisdom, she took some and ate it.

It was pleasing to the eye, and desirable.

I'm guessing that was an understatement. A vast one. I'm guessing that the tree was incredibly beautiful, and the fruit magically enticing.

And I thought about my own struggles.

How delicious it would be to approach the tree, to press up against its roughness, to smell the fragrance of leaf and bark and temptation.

I would climb up and rest among the boughs, feeling the wind swaying my cradle, and reach out now and then for a taste of certain sweetness.

I completely understand the desire Lewis describes; to want to get inside to where all the beauty comes from.

And it is hard to understand how sin can be so thoroughly enmeshed in beauty. The beauty is so very understandably desirable.

How can the wanting of such beauty be wrong?

And then God, in his generousity, sent this reading in my morning devotional:

2 Cor. 12:6-10 Although if I should wish to boast, I would not be foolish, for I would be telling the truth. But I refrain, so that no one may think more of me than what he sees in me or hears from me because of the abundance of the revelations. Therefore, that I might not become too elated, a thorn in the flesh was given to me, an angel of Satan, to beat me, to keep me from being too elated. Three times I begged the Lord about this, that it might leave me, but he said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for power is made perfect in weakness." I will rather boast most gladly of my weaknesses, in order that the power of Christ may dwell with me. Therefore, I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and constraints, for the sake of Christ; for when I am weak, then I am strong.

I can't say that I pray that my thorn be removed, because it is too enmeshed with the beauty. The beauty is too beautiful to sacrifice.

But He shows me that in this struggle, in this recognition of my weakness, in the knowledge that I too would eat of the beautiful fruit, He is strong. As I acknowledge the draw of the beauty, He grows in strength in me. As I surrender all pretense of courage and honor and fortitude, He rises up.

So I dream of the tree, and rest in His strength, trusting that the garden He has created for me is perfect in every way, despite the beauty of the tree beyond it's borders. Perhaps even enhanced by it.

And I am comforted by the sight of it in the distance, and the scent of apple blossoms, promising fruit.

Shakespeare on love (13)

From Much Ado About Nothing:

I do much wonder that one man, seeing how much another man is a fool when he dedicates his behaviors to love, will, after he hath laughed at such shallow follies in others, become the argument of his own scorn by falling in love.

Love seeks union

Love seeks union.

This is what I thought about as I luxuriated in bed this morning, surrounded by silence.

That, and it's correlary; unappeasable want.

Cottage life...

I am at the cottage. The weather has been iffy; today the sun is shining, a steady wind blowing, and a coolish 70+ temp.

Tomorrow is my beloved daughter's 21 birthday. Driving here, just the two of us, was a great gift. Our talk was sweet. I am stunningly unworthy of the gift of relationship with her which God has chosen to grant me, in His great mercy. I sometimes wonder if the quick turnaround with her, and the degree of warm appreciation with which she gifts me, may be a portent of a shortened life. I would not have expected it until I am gray(er) and she was in the throes of her own childrearing.

Stunningly generous, He is.

I'm sitting at the shady end of the new deck on the front of the main building, watching the kids down on the beach below me. The view is wonderful; the deck is a great addition. I'd be sitting in the sun in an effort to cover up all the imperfections of my pasty arms and legs, but when I do, I can't see the screen. So it's the shade for now. Vanity will have to wait.

And I'm typing to you, beloved reader, of the silly minutae. Wishing you were here, perhaps.

It's been hard to carve away devotional time this trip. Each time I try someone I love appears and wants to chat. Sometimes multiple people. This morning a flock of young people appeared, and my sister in law said that it was because of the Bible on my lap. I'm certain that is true. It draws invisibly.

My daughter reported that her grandmother annointed her with holy water this morning. Apparently she does so every day for her little beagly mutt, and BD wanted in. Sounds like I need to give my mother in law a bottle of annointing oil so that she can both bless -and- annoint. BD is drawn to sacramentals. I love it.

As the young ones gathered around we talked about today's North Korea test missiles, followed by the apparently unjust and no longer necessary trade embargos with Cuba. Yesterday it was how hand sanitizer would kill us all in 20 years, and a comparison of fecal matter quantities between tofurkey italian sausages and Oscar Myer weiners.

It is a joy to watch energetic dedication to causes. Fire burns hot in the young.

I am more banked coals and smoulder. Waiting for a puff of warm breath to bring the fire to life.

Breathe on me...

Shakespeare on love (12)

From a Midsummer Night's Dream:

Love looks not with the eyes,
but with the mind,
and therefore is winged Cupid
painted blind.

Beauty will save the world

Just came across a line of T shirts which read:

"Beauty will save the world."

Word.

Meow

Lay your jacket down for me
so that, cat like
I can sniff your cuffs and collar
push my head into the dark tunnel of your arm
and rub my face against the shiny lining.
I'll knead myself a black nest
sink down into your scent
and start to purr.

--Chantelle Franc

One word

Dayenu.

Christ in the howling wilderness

You will never find Jesus so precious as when the world is one vast howling wilderness. Then he is like a rose blooming in the midst of the desolation, a rock rising above the storm.

-- Robert Murray M'Cheyne

All curves and sweet intoxication

I am besotted.
As soaked with love
as a wine-steeped pear;
drenched red
with heady sweetness
and the desire
to be consumed.

--Chantelle Franc

"The Cloud of Unknowing" on Sensuality

From Chapter 66:

Before ere man sinned was the Sensuality so obedient unto the Will, unto the which it is as it were servant, that it ministered never unto it any unordained liking or grumbling in any bodily creature, or any ghostly feigning of liking or misliking made by any ghostly enemy in the bodily wits. But now it is not so: for unless it be ruled by grace in the Will, for to suffer meekly and in measure the pain of the original sin, the which it feeleth in absence of needful comforts and in presence of speedful discomforts, and thereto also for to restrain it from lust in presence of needful comforts, and from lusty plesaunce in the absence of speedful discomforts: else will it wretchedly and wantonly welter, as a swine in the mire, in the wealths of this world and the foul flesh so much that all our living shall be more beastly and fleshly, than either manly or ghostly.

Three classes of men

"There are three classes of men; lovers of wisdom, lovers of honor, and lovers of gain."

--Plato

Love you Janis

On Saturday night I went to see a local production of "Love, Janis". It was unbelievable (in a good way).

First off, I confess that I've always been a Joplinaphobe, lumping her in with Hendrix and a few of their contemporaries who's psychedelically strident style always made me feel too high with no way to come down.

(And not in a good way.)

I was born a few years to late to get the whole hippy thing. Not to mention that when buzzed I preferred either the humorous (ala Zappa) or the trippy mellow (ala Pink Floyd). I just never understood the screaming, jangling, psychodelic vibe. My nerves couldn't take it.

But I digress.

Given my predilections and prejudices, I never knew that Janis was rich, and soulful, and bluesy. Not sure how I could have not known it, but I didn't. I also didn't know she had a southern dialect. Or that 27 is so desperately young an age at which to die.

Her story in this show, told through real letters to her family, song, and snippets from interviews with the media, portrays a hungry heart. A heart which yearned the way this blog yearns. It presented one talented girl's search to fill that hunger in all the wrong ways. The beauty of her soul shone through and all you wanted to do was save her.

All I wanted to do was save her.

To show her He who loves her. He who is all in all.

I wonder if she is in heaven? If she is, I imagine that she may be one of the specially beloved ones; she was so very, very hungry.

I'm going to buy some of her music. And perhaps add her to my list of souls I request to pray for me.

Shakespeare on love (11)

VALENTINE
Why, how know you that I am in love?

SPEED
Marry, by these special marks: first, you have learn'd, like
Sir Proteus, to wreath your arms like a malcontent; to relish a
love-song, like a robin redbreast; to walk alone, like one that
had the pestilence; to sigh, like a school-boy that had lost his
A B C; to weep, like a young wench that had buried her grandam;
to fast, like one that takes diet; to watch, like one that fears
robbing; to speak puling, like a beggar at Hallowmas.

When will our eyes meet?

Warning: TOTALLY hokey music alert!

This morning I woke up with Barry Manilow's "Weekend in New England" (aka "when will I hold you again") running through my head.

I know, I know...

(I don't even dare tell you the little ditty that I couldn't ditch while showering on Tuesday.)

I'm not sure where either of them came from, but I can at least make some kind of a connection for today's version.

Last night's class centered around the "irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired" (as Frost put it.) We are born with the longing for completion as a central part of our being.

"Weekend in New England" was popular when I was a teenybopper, with no experience of love. I'd never had a boyfriend, and had no idea of what the pain of separation felt like.

But something in my soul sang along with this song and knew it to be true. I felt the longing, the yearning, the loss. And the ache it created in my heart was somehow also a pleasure.

Here are the lyrics, for your delectation.

Last night I waved goodbye
Now it seems years
I'm back in the city
Where nothing is clear
But thoughts of me holding you
Bringing us near
And tell me

When will our eyes meet?
When can I touch you?
When will this strong yearning end?
And when will I hold you again?

Time in New England
Took me away
To long, rocky beaches
And you by the bay
We started a story
Whose end must now wait
And tell me

When will our eyes meet?
When can I touch you?
When will this strong yearning end?
And when will I hold you again?

I feel the change coming
I feel the wind blow
I feel brave and daring
I feel my blood flow

With you, I could bring out
All the love that I have
With you, there's a heaven
So earth ain't so bad
And tell me

When will our eyes meet?
When can I touch you?
When will this strong yearning end?
And when will I hold you . . .
again?

Naked confession time: sometimes I channel Dolly Parton. You can take the girl out of the trailer park, but you can't take the trailer park out of the girl. The occasional taste of Barry Manilow gives me the same kind of trashy pleasure that Spam does.

There; I've said it.

Once in a while, I actually eat spam.

And I like it.

Scent of love

I am focusing on the Song of Songs in this week's Love Letters from Home class, and because of it am increasingly interested in scent.

I find myself wanting to smell the scent of love. I want to breathe deeply of his scent, and see how it varies from beard to nape, from throat to wrist.

I imagine his fingertips to smell faintly of copper and salt.

In the fulfillment of time, will there be sweat?

Missing you

I have been soooo busy lately that I haven't made time to post! Preparing for and teaching the Love Letters from Home series is consuming my mental and time bandwidth, amongst other adventures. Two more sessions to go. This coming week will center around what the Song of Songs tells us, along with the concept of desire as an experience of God. The series will culminate with the annunciation and the Eucharist as consummation of the wedding feast.

But I miss this place!

Hunger for truth

Truth isn't always beauty, but the hunger for it is.

-- Nadine Gordimer

On the Lady from The Great Divorce

"...only partly do I remember the unbearable beauty of her face."

"...there is joy enough in the little finger of a great saint such as yonder lady to waken all the dead things of the universe into life."

"...her beauty brightened so that I could hardly see anything else,"

"...the invitation to all joy, singing out of her whole being like a bird's song on an April evening, seemed to me such that no creature could resist it."

"Few men looked on her without becoming, in a certain fashion, her lovers. But it was the kind of love that made them not less true, but truer, to their own wives."

"Love shone not from her face only, but from all her limbs, as if it were some liquid in which she had just been bathing."

Soul sick

I had a close encounter with man's inhumanity toward man a little while ago, in the form of a skinny white high school senior who had been jumped by 4 big gangsta punks. We just missed the actual beating by a minute or two. I came across him while driving my son and a classmate home. (I drive the other child each afternoon because 2 years ago he had also been jumped walking home in the same area.)

We stopped and I tried to run interference between a teacher at the school who tried to contact the boy's parents, the police, and ambulance personnel.

The boy will probably be fine.

The blood he was spitting was probably from his mouth rather than from an internal injury.

My soul is sick.

I'm not sure who I hurt more for; the boy who was kicked and beaten, or the 4 boys who did it.

So little time

So much to say, so little time...

Beloved reader, please pray for me.

Shakespeare on love (10)

After him I love
more than I love these eyes,
more than my life,
more by all mores...

Shakespeare on love (9)

Your brother and my sister no sooner met but they looked;
no sooner looked but they loved;
no sooner loved but they sighed;
no sooner sighed but they asked one another the reason;
no sooner knew the reason but they sought the remedy.

Shakespeare on love (8)

For such as I am, all true lovers are,
unstaid and skittish in all motions else
save in the constant image of the creature
that is beloved.

O Let it Freely Burn

From the Forward Day by Day devotional, for May 31, 2009:

Here am I, O Love divine.
I rise, I dress, I eat, I work, play sleep, and rise again.
It’s not a bad life, and yet it leaves a cold and empty place within me.
So come down, O Love divine, all loves excelling, joy of heaven, to earth come down!
Seek thou this soul of mine, for I cannot seek thee.
I know neither where nor how to look.
Seek thou this soul of mine, and visit it with thine own ardor glowing.
Warm the cold and fill the empty place with thyself, for thou thyself art warmth and thou thyself art fullness.
Thou art all compassion; pure unbounded love thou art.
O Comforter, draw near.
Nearer and nearer draw to me till thou art nearer than the breath in my lungs and the beat of my heart.
Within my heart appear—be seen be felt, rule.
And kindle it, thy holy flame bestowing, until my heart burns with holy fire.
Then let it freely burn, till earthly passions turn to dust and ashes in its heat consuming, with a flame no ocean can quench.
Unhindered, unchecked, O let it freely burn!

Shakespeare on love (7)

So tedious is this day
as is the night before some festival
to an impatient child that hath new robes
and may not wear them.

Shakespeare on love (6)

I am giddy. Expectation whirls me round.
The'imaginary relish is so sweet
That it enchants my sense.

Shakespeare on love (5)

The sea hath bounds, but deep desire hath none.

Shakespeare on love (4)

Madam, you have bereft me of all words.
Only my blood speaks to you in my veins.

Shakespeare on love (3)

Hot blood begets hot thoughts,
and hot thoughts beget hot deeds,
and hot deeds is love.

Shakespeare on love (2)

...when love speaks,
the voice of all the gods
make heaven
drowsy with the harmony.

St. Francis de Sales on confidence in God

"The everlasting God has in His wisdom foreseen from eternity the cross that He now presents to you as a gift from His inmost heart. This cross He now sends you He has considered with His all-knowing eyes, understood with His divine mind, tested with His wise justice, warmed with loving arms and weighed with His own hands to see that it be not one inch too large and not one ounce too heavy for you. He has blessed it with His holy Name, anointed it with His consolation, taken one last glance at you and your courage, and then sent it to you from heaven, a special greeting from God to you, an alms of the all-merciful love of God."

Love letters from home

Yesterday I named the series I'll be teaching. I'm calling it "Love letters from home."

Time to get off the bench...

A few weeks ago God began whispering to me "Get off the bench."

Part of me wondered what the heck He was talking about; I'm working for Him constantly.

But most of me knew what He meant.

And then the door opened.

Starting in June, I will be introducing a group of women to the concepts I play with here. Please pray for me; that the women would blossom in response to the intimacy He desires with them.

Pencils in the hand of God

We are all pencils in the hand of a writing God, who is sending love letters to the world.

-- Mother Teresa

Magical decoys for eternal delights

From Care of the Soul (Ch. 4):

"'What is human love? What is its purpose? It is the desire for union with a beautiful object in order to make eternity available to mortal life.' It is a fundamental teaching of the Neo-platonists that earthly pleasures are an invitation to eternal delights. Ficino says that these things of ordinary life that enchant us toward eternity are 'magical decoys.' In other words, what appears to be a fully earthly relationship between two human individuals is at the same time a path toward far deeper experiences of the soul. ... The early Romantic German poet Novalis put it quite simply: love, he says, was not made for this world."

Desire for pure absorption

From Care of the Soul (Ch. 4):

"There is something about being in love that wishes for blindness, pure absorption and freedom from complexity."

Only one cure

From Care of the Soul (Ch. 4):

"A general principle we can take from Freud is that love sparks imagination to extraordinary activity. Being 'in love' is like being 'in imagination.' The literal concerns of everyday life, yesterday such a preoccupation, now practically disappear in the rush of love's daydreams. Concrete reality recedes as the imaginal world settles in. Thus, the 'divine madness' of love is akin to the mania of paranoia and other dissociations.

Does this mean that we need to be cured of this madness? Robert Burton in his massive self-help book of the seventeenth century, The Anatomy of Melancholy, says there is only one cure for the melancholic sickness of love: enter into it with abandon."

On unearthly cravings

From Care of the Soul (Ch. 4)

"Love releases us into the realm of divine imagination, where the soul is expanded and reminded of its unearthly cravings and needs. We think that when a lover inflates his loved one he is failing to acknowledge her flaws--'Love is blind.' But it may be the other way around. Love allows a person to see the true angelic nature of another person, the halo, the aureole of divinity. "

Not to mention a Saturday morning...

Knowing you'll have something good to read before bed is among the most pleasurable of sensations.

-- Vladimir Nabokov

Come see a man who told me everything I have done

During devotions this morning I began to think about how the scriptures repeatedly couple the concepts of marital infidelity and deific infidelity.

I've also been thinking of how many Gospel encounters describe Jesus' interacting with women in sexual sin. He seems to have a special affinity for them.

And I wonder why this is. I haven't come to any conclusions yet, just still wondering.

On dancing before the Lord with abandon

In yesterday's musical worship at mass I thought about David's abandoned dance before God, contrasted with my own reserved participation in the act of singing as praying twice.

I love to dance. What a joy it would be to enter into whole-body worship of Him who is song itself. But it's hard to picture entering into the sensuality of dance amidst the congregation, those people who know me but don't -know- me.

My dance would be lovemaking from a distance. My dance would be the enchanted swaying of a charmed snake. My dance would be a cry for union.

My dance would make them uncomfortable and suspicious.

So once again I realize that I am both like and unlike my namesake. Like him, I long to dance with abandon before my Lord. But unlike him, I refrain because of the reaction of those who would witness it.

Monday epiphany

I think I want some purple shoes.

Suzanne

A client sang part of this to me over the phone one of the first times I spoke to him a few years back. The recent Hokey Music post caused me to stumble over it, and I realized I'd never heard the real thing.

Suzanne by Leonard Cohen, sung by Neil Diamond

Suzanne takes you down to her place near the river
You can hear the boats go by
You can spend the night beside her
And you know that she's half crazy
But that's why you want to be there
And she feeds you tea and oranges
That come all the way from China
And just when you mean to tell her
That you have no love to give her
Then she gets you on her wavelength
And she lets the river answer
That you've always been her lover
And you want to travel with her
And you want to travel blind
And you know that she will trust you
For you've touched her perfect body with your mind.

And Jesus was a sailor
When he walked upon the water
And he spent a long time watching
From his lonely wooden tower
And when he knew for certain
Only drowning men could see him
He said "All men will be sailors then
Until the sea shall free them"
But he himself was broken
Long before the sky would open
Forsaken, almost human
He sank beneath your wisdom like a stone
And you want to travel with him
And you want to travel blind
And you think maybe you'll trust him
For he's touched your perfect body with his mind.

Now Suzanne takes your hand
And she leads you to the river
She is wearing rags and feathers
From Salvation Army counters
And the sun pours down like honey
On our lady of the harbour
And she shows you where to look
Among the garbage and the flowers
There are heroes in the seaweed
There are children in the morning
They are leaning out for love
And they will lean that way forever
While Suzanne holds the mirror
And you want to travel with her
And you want to travel blind
And you know that you can trust her
For she's touched your perfect body with her mind.

Blessed assurance

A friend told me on Wednesday that she'd dreamt a strange dream of me the night before. She said that I was covered in tattoos (in RL I have none) of planets and stars which twirled and spun. She said it was very beautiful and she kept calling people to come over and see.

She woke wondering what it was about, and then thought about it and decided it was because she wanted everyone to know how awesome I was.

What a lovely gift for her to give me, from God's lips. He was speaking to me at a time when I needed to hear such a thing from Him.

Hokey music alert!

Neil Diamond's Play Me is running through my head this morning, which suits my mood. I looked up the lyrics, but decided to post just the refrain:

You are the sun
I am the moon
You are the words
I am the tune
Play me.

Hopefully not...

I don't fear death at all, though I do fear certain methods of dying. For example, while topping off the air pressure in a tire this morning, I remembered my fear of dying by exploding, over-full tire.

Eschatological Procreation

I wonder what sort of procreation will occur in the fulfillment of time, with our resurrected bodies and Christ as our bridegroom?

An apple by any other name

I sought the impossible;
a word to describe you.
The closest I came
was
delicious.

--Chantelle Franc

Victorious denial

I realized yesterday that all my greatest victories, my greatest conquests, have been acts of submission and self denial.

His fruit is sweet to my mouth

Warning: here goes my mind again...

I heard part of a Christopher West talk on the Theology of the Body over the weekend, and once again my mind traveled to interesting places. He echoed one of my favorite topics of contemplation, saying that all of the sacraments reflect the essential reality of Christianity as a marital covenant between us (the bride) and God (the bridegroom). He spoke of how we are to understand the Song of Songs, and touched on communion as consummation.

My mental meanderings connected to thoughts I'd had at mass that morning, about how the placing of His body upon my tongue seems too rushed, too formulaic, too much of one-more-person-in-an-assembly-line. I thought of how lovely it would be to linger with His hand approaching, then resting against my mouth; His body approaching His bride...

I believe in the wisdom of a celibate priesthood for many reasons, but began to wonder what it would be like to be married to a priest.

What would it be like if your husband celebrated the mass with you alone, standing in persona Christi before you, delivering Himself to His bride first through the precious species, and then through his/His body itself?

What would it be like to consummate both weddings in the Eucharistic celebration, the three of you whispering the closing prayers together at the end?

We will not desire candy in heaven.

At Jacob's Well

This is the most beautiful thing I've read in a very long time. Needless to say, it comforts me.

At Jacob's Well

Here's what I want to know about the woman
carrying her water-jar to Jacob's well
outside the town of Sychar, in Samaria:
what charms, what freshness bubbled up
from which corner of her heart, and made her the oasis
that she was? Five husbands and a lover
come one by one to slake their thirst in her,
and still some water-truce holds in Sychar, protects
this frank green spring from all polluting shame;
and now another thirsty man, this foreigner,
sits asking, and again her charms bubble up
like the water, like her questions. Could that be
what enchants them all, her way of asking
straight to the heart of things? And did she know,
before he spoke, how long her heart had thirsted
to be answered the same way? Hear the dance
of their talk, these strangers, as they sit together
on the path to Jacob's well, speak in circles
around the deep water: thirst and drinking,
husbands and lovers, mountain and temple,
Spirit and truth--askings and answers
bowing in, leaning back, swayed and spun
to the beat of two hidden drums. Here's what
I wonder about the woman, dancing back now
to the village, her water-jar left behind
for him to drink from: did she notice
what the disciples half-saw, how deep he had drunk
from their talk, from their dance? See the gleam
in his dark eyes, like sunlight sparking deep
on well-water; see his toes tap inside dusty sandals
in time to the dancer's steps; now see him rise
and laugh, shake his head, rinsed by her charms,
sated by her questions, enchanted by her thirsty
generous heart, a vessel after his own heart,
a dancer who matches his own steps in the dance
of ask and answer, of Spirit courting soul.

--Elizabeth A. Nelson

Peace among the thorns

Just saw the following as a closing salutation in a mysticism discussion group:

"Peace among the thorns."

I think I might have to start using that.

View from a Monday morning

Striving for virtue is tedious.

Eros in all his splendour

From The Four Loves (Ch 4):

It is in the grandeur of Eros that the seeds of danger are concealed. He has spoken like a god. His total commitment, his reckless disregard of happiness, his transcendence of self-regard, sound like a message from the eternal world. And yet it cannot, just as it stands, be the voice of God Himself. For Eros, speaking with that very grandeur and displaying that very transcendence of self, may urge to evil as well as to good. Nothing is shallower than the belief that a love which leads to sin is always qualitatively lower more animal or more trivial than one which leads to faithful, fruitful and Christian marriage. The love which leads to cruel and perjured unions, even to suicide-pacts and murder, is not likely to be wandering lust or idle sentiment. It may well be Eros in all his splendour; heart-breakingly sincere; ready for every sacrifice except renunciation.

Silk and incense

With you I would be
silk
and incense.

--Chantelle Franc

Teach thy tongue

Teach thy tongue to say "I do not know," and thou shalt progress.

-- Maimonides

Wild and undisciplined Christianity

Recently my BP described the church universal as being like "...an English country garden - wild and undisciplined but beautiful and blessed to the eyes of our sovereign Lord".

Lovely, no?

Effervescing into twilight

I lay on the border of dreams
desire
like wind keening
through empty spaces
heart beating
to the rhythm of your name
while
you-shaped emptiness
expands to consume me
effervescing
into sparkling twilight.
Now
I am awake
and hungry for you still.

--Chantelle Franc

If only the rest of the clergy understood it as well

This is what my BP (beloved priest) does, and encourages us to do.

From chapter 4 of Lilith:

'The sun broke through the clouds, and the raindrops flashed and sparkled on the grass. The raven was walking over it.

"You will wet your feet!" I cried.

"And mire my beak," he answered, immediately plunging it deep in the sod, and drawing out a great wriggling red worm. He threw back his head, and tossed it in the air. It spread great wings, gorgeous in red and black, and soared aloft.

"Tut! tut!" I exclaimed; "you mistake, Mr. Raven: worms are not the larvæ of butterflies!"

"Never mind," he croaked; "it will do for once! I'm not a reading man at present, but sexton at the--at a certain graveyard--cemetery, more properly--in--at--no matter where!"

"I see! you can't keep your spade still: and when you have nothing to bury, you must dig something up! Only you should mind what it is before you make it fly! No creature should be allowed to forget what and where it came from!"

"Why?" said the raven.

"Because it will grow proud, and cease to recognise its superiors."

No man knows it when he is making an idiot of himself.

"Where do the worms come from?" said the raven, as if suddenly grown curious to know.

"Why, from the earth, as you have just seen!" I answered.

"Yes, last!" he replied. "But they can't have come from it first-- for that will never go back to it!" he added, looking up.

I looked up also, but could see nothing save a little dark cloud, the edges of which were red, as if with the light of the sunset.

"Surely the sun is not going down!" I exclaimed, struck with amazement.

"Oh, no!" returned the raven. "That red belongs to the worm."

"You see what comes of making creatures forget their origin!" I cried with some warmth.

"It is well, surely, if it be to rise higher and grow larger!" he returned. "But indeed I only teach them to find it!"

"Would you have the air full of worms?"

"That is the business of a sexton. If only the rest of the clergy understood it as well!"

In went his beak again through the soft turf, and out came the wriggling worm. He tossed it in the air, and away it flew.'

On a multitudinously complicated significance

I came across a passage Thursday night which does a decent job of conveying the difficulty I have describing what God whispers to me.

From chapter 9 of George MacDonald's Lilith:

"Here I interrupt my narrative to remark that it involves a constant struggle to say what cannot be said with even an approach to precision, the things recorded being, in their nature and in that of the creatures concerned in them, so inexpressibly different from any possible events of this economy, that I can present them only by giving, in the forms and language of life in this world, the modes in which they affected me--not the things themselves, but the feelings they woke in me. Even this much, however, I do with a continuous and abiding sense of failure, finding it impossible to present more than one phase of a multitudinously complicated significance, or one concentric sphere of a graduated embodiment. A single thing would sometimes seem to be and mean many things, with an uncertain identity at the heart of them, which kept constantly altering their look. I am indeed often driven to set down what I know to be but a clumsy and doubtful representation of the mere feeling aimed at, none of the communicating media of this world being fit to convey it, in its peculiar strangeness, with even an approach to clearness or certainty. Even to one who knew the region better than myself, I should have no assurance of transmitting the reality of my experience in it. While without a doubt, for instance, that I was actually regarding a scene of activity, I might be, at the same moment, in my consciousness aware that I was perusing a metaphysical argument."

Spring

Spring hopes eternal.

Blossoming of desire

In prayer this morning I pondered what happens to our desires when we leave this world; desires which are often tarnished with a verdigris of sin.

My first thought was that they would burn away like dross as our metal is purified.

But that is too simple and too dismissive of beauty.

Then I wondered if these desires might get consumed by the burning fire of love for our God, that the beatific vision would enrapture them into it's raging core of flame. And rather than simply being burned away, they would feed the fire that is Him, and grow it.

Better, this explanation, but still a bit shallow.

I finally concluded that the desires of this world which we carry must blossom and bloom after death. Instead of being removed or subsumed, they expand and grow until our whole being burns with love and desire and passion for all of creation, rather than for little pieces of it.

Just as His being does.

I can't wait to find out the truth.

The three become one

I recently sat in a small group celebrating the morning office, and listened to our voices united in praying the Lord's prayer.

My mind wandered where it wanders, and I wondered what it might be like to recite the prayer responsively while in the preliminary steps of lovemaking.

What would it be like to turn lovemaking into worship?

Would the three become one?

(Did I mention that I sometimes wonder about my mind?)

This saying is hard; who can accept it?

The other day I had a thought which feels both intensely right and disturbingly wrong.

It came while pondering the scourging scene from Mel Gibson's The passion of the Christ. Christ's mother and Mary the Magdalene used white cloths to try and collect His precious blood which was spilled and splattered over the stone pavement around the whipping post. In addition to the blood, you could see scraps of flesh which had been ripped from his body by the barbs of the scourge.

As I meditated on this scene, I thought about the spot becoming forever holy through such an outpouring.

Here is the disturbing part:

I desired to eat those torn pieces of His body, and even lick up the blood which the women must have had to leave behind.

I recognize how grotesque this sounds, and yet I still desire it, and think that it is the only right and reverent thing to do.

Sometimes I wonder about my mind...

Magnetic North

My heart is a compass needle
and you are north.

--Chantelle Franc

Wisdom from a Celestial Seasonings box

Bread and water can so easily be toast and tea.

--Unknown

Foot washing 2009

What a Holy Week it was! Each year is differently profound.

In mid-March I pondered whether Mary's gift of foot washing and anointing may have been inspirational to Jesus later service to his disciples. My experience last Thursday confirmed it.

As usual in this service, I knelt and wept as people went forward to have one of our deacons or seminarians wash their feet. A lovely man who I'd not yet met turned around twice to ask if I was all right, apparently unused to the sounds of sobs in church. The bent backs and bowed heads of these servants of Christ were heart rending.

I wondered who God had in mind for me, and eventually went up to one who washed us for the first time this year. I sat before him, the sobs rising in intensity as he lifted my foot.

And I still can't believe what he did.

I've participated in these services for 5 or 6 years and each time the men have been unfailingly reverent and tender, clearly acting in the person of Christ. Each one kept his face turned down so that we can better imagine He who first washed us.

I think that the Holy Spirit whispered to this man for me.

He took my naked, humble foot, no thing of beauty, and lavished it with love the same way I imagine Mary caressing Christ. It was an act of profound intimacy which I cannot possibly describe.

I was undone.

I am trying to figure out how to thank him for his obedience to the Spirit's prompting to give me this gift.

The generosity of our Lord...

George MacDonald on the Passions

From Phantastes:

"The hot fever of life had gone by, and I breathed the clear mountain-air of the land of Death. I had never dreamed of such blessedness. It was not that I had in any way ceased to be what I had been. The very fact that anything can die, implies the existence of something that cannot die; which must either take to itself another form, as when the seed that is sown dies, and arises again; or, in conscious existence, may, perhaps, continue to lead a purely spiritual life. If my passions were dead, the souls of the passions, those essential mysteries of the spirit which had imbodied themselves in the passions, and had given to them all their glory and wonderment, yet lived, yet glowed, with a pure, undying fire. They rose above their vanishing earthly garments, and disclosed themselves angels of light."

George MacDonald on Dying of Desire (II)

From Phantastes:

"He could not come near her, could not speak to her, could not hear a sound from those sweet lips, to which his longing eyes would cling like bees to their honey-founts. Ever and anon he sang to himself: "I shall die for love of the maiden;" and ever he looked again, and died not, though his heart seemed ready to break with intensity of life and longing. And the more he did for her, the more he loved her; and he hoped that, although she never appeared to see him, yet she was pleased to think that one unknown would give his life to her. He tried to comfort himself over his separation from her, by thinking that perhaps some day she would see him and make signs to him, and that would satisfy him; "for," thought he, "is not this all that a loving soul can do to enter into communion with another? Nay, how many who love never come nearer than to behold each other as in a mirror; seem to know and yet never know the inward life; never enter the other soul; and part at last, with but the vaguest notion of the universe on the borders of which they have been hovering for years?"

Wormicide

It was raining the other day, and as I left work and walked across the vast parking lot I watched a worm squirm his way through a puddle. The sight of this gets me every time, and I bent to try to rescue him. He was slippery and annoyed by my "help", energetically resisting my efforts. I eventually did grab him, hoping I didn't hurt him in the process, and walked him over to a landscaped area which offered some dirt.

I felt both virtuous and victorious.

For roughly 13 seconds.

Then I saw another worm, this time already dead.

Then another.

Then another.

And a sense of futility rolled over me; the parking lot was too big. I was surrounded by other parking lots. The city was full of parking lots and driveways and other surfaces all covered with suicidal worms awaiting destruction.

I couldn't possibly save them.

That's when the anger hit; what the heck is wrong with worms that they end up drowning on asphalt?

Where do they all come from?

Why do I feel guilty about them?

And then, as if in a Hallmark card commercial, silent violins began to play and I thought of birds.

Birds were the answer; every rainstorm is a gift to the birds.

And I felt better.

Easter is coming. Alleluia.

George MacDonald on Dying of Desire

From Phantastes:

"She was found, the next morning, dead beneath a withered tree on a bare hill-side, some miles inland. They buried her where she lay, as is their custom; for, before they die, they instinctively search for a spot like the place of their birth, and having found one that satisfies them, they lie down, fold their wings around them, if they be women, or cross their arms over their breasts, if they are men, just as if they were going to sleep; and so sleep indeed. The sign or cause of coming death is an indescribable longing for something, they know not what, which seizes them, and drives them into solitude, consuming them within, till the body fails. When a youth and a maiden look too deep into each other's eyes, this longing seizes and possesses them; but instead of drawing nearer to each other, they wander away, each alone, into solitary places, and die of their desire."

Foot washing revisited

Here's an article I wrote a few years ago on what is for me one of the most heart-wrenching services. Should have thought to reference it earlier in the day...

Instilling Humility: Maundy Thursday Foot Washing

SquirrelTree

If not a dog named me
perhaps I can be
a creature near your window
perched in a tree
pretending not to notice
when you watch
and hoping you will join me
in the warmth of my nest.

--Chantelle Franc

Imaginatio divina

At my beloved priest's invitation, for a few weeks I have been practicing what I am calling imagiplation or imaginatio divina; the use of the imagination for experiencing God.

It has been an amazing adventure, one which I need to document in greater detail in future. For now I'll limit myself to telling you about His gift to me this morning.

I approach Him in a particular setting which He created for me, and I climb into His lap. Normally I cuddle in like a child. This morning however, I turned my face up to Him as a woman, not a child. He bent His head to meet me and we kissed a kiss of lovers at rest. And as we kissed, He began to blow His breath into me.

I entered His presence heavy of heart and mind. I left at peace and in wonder.

He is so very generous...

George MacDonald on Reflections

From Phantastes:

"Why are all reflections lovelier than what we call the reality? — not so grand or so strong, it may be, but always lovelier? ... All mirrors are magic mirrors. The commonest room is a room in a poem when I turn to the glass. ... In whatever way it may be accounted for, of one thing we may be sure, that this feeling is no cheat; for there is no cheating in nature and the simple unsought feelings of the soul. There must be a truth involved in it, though we may but in part lay hold of the meaning. Even the memories of past pain are beautiful; and past delights, though beheld only through clefts in the grey clouds of sorrow, are lovely as Fairy Land. But how have I wandered into the deeper fairyland of the soul, while as yet I only float towards the fairy palace of Fairy Land! The moon, which is the lovelier memory or reflex of the down-gone sun, the joyous day seen in the faint mirror of the brooding night, had rapt me away."

St. Ambrose on Psalms

What is more pleasing than a psalm? A psalm is a blessing on the lips of the people, praise of God, the assembly's homage, a general acclamation, a word that speaks for all, the voice of the Church, a confession of faith in song.

-- Ambrose

Rehearsing goodby

I rehearse your goodbye
in my dreams
the one that moves you away
to lands unknown
and sporadic hollowness
becomes forever.

George MacDonald on Truth, Joy and Sorrow

From Phantastes:

"From this I was partly aroused by a glimmering of white, that, through the trees on the left, vaguely crossed my vision, as I gazed upwards. But the trees again hid the object; and at the moment, some strange melodious bird took up its song, and sang, not an ordinary bird-song, with constant repetitions of the same melody, but what sounded like a continuous strain, in which one thought was expressed, deepening in intensity as evolved in progress. It sounded like a welcome already overshadowed with the coming farewell. As in all sweetest music, a tinge of sadness was in every note. Nor do we know how much of the pleasures even of life we owe to the intermingled sorrows. Joy cannot unfold the deepest truths, although deepest truth must be deepest joy. Cometh white-robed Sorrow, stooping and wan, and flingeth wide the doors she may not enter. Almost we linger with Sorrow for very love."

George MacDonald on Self-destructive beauty

This one reminds me of an old me.

From Phantastes by George MacDonald:

"...I am sure she would not look so beautiful if she did not take means to make herself look more beautiful than she is. And then, you know, you began by being in love with her before you saw her beauty, mistaking her for the lady of the marble--another kind altogether, I should think. But the chief thing that makes her beautiful is this: that, although she loves no man, she loves the love of any man, and when she finds one in her power, her desire to bewitch him and gain his love (not for the sake of his love either, but that she may be conscious anew of her own beauty, through the admiration he manifests), makes her very lovely--with a self-destructive beauty, though; for it is that which is constantly wearing her away within, till, at last, the decay will reach her face, and her whole front, when all the lovely mask of nothing will fall to pieces, and she be vanished for ever."

Dazzling truth

The truth dazzles gradually, or else the world would be blind.

-- Emily Dickinson