Beginning Our Week of Fire

Our week dedicated to air has concluded and now we've moved on to fire. Fire has always been a challenging element for me to feel kinship with. I most often notice this in tarot cards--though I don't use them much these days, I've collected some lovely ones that I still enjoy occasionally. Most decks use a symbolism that incorporates fire, and I never feel like fire is well differentiated from the other elements. I know, I know, it's not the cards. I'm not a fiery person. I'm a born and bred New England Yankee, prone to be a little buttoned-up--maybe even more than a little; at least on the surface. I've always wanted to be one of those people who lets it all hang out, singing one moment and yelling the next. (Okay, maybe it's not so fun to be on the receiving end of that kind of outburst. I don't even know how it would be to live that way, it's so far from my experience.)

I got off to a slow start with fire. When I started thinking about air it was easy to incorporate my consciousness and appreciation of that element into my life. But fire is a little bit more metaphorical: we see sun, or light, or feel warmth frequently, but fire itself is not present much in our everyday lives, whereas air surrounds us constantly.

But maybe this will turn out to be a slow burn! First of all, as before, Christine's book chapter on Fire was extremely helpful in opening up several new perspectives on fire. I thought more about how fire and light illuminate; how they represent the spark of life, spirit, and creation. I thought about the volcanic fires at the core of our earth (and we're seeing lots of great Eyjafjallajökull photos on the web to help with visualization!), volcanic vents in the ocean, and the fires of stars, other cosmic objects, and solar winds--fire and light permeating the cosmos in so many ways. And I thought about the passion and joy of creativity. I love creativity and immerse myself in many ways, so it's just a matter of paying closer attention to this or reframing it in my consciousness.

On Monday I didn't have any chance to meditate or pray, but I went running. It was hot under the sun and I was slogging up a hill that always challenges me as I near the end of my run, pushing the jogging stroller and fogging up my sunglasses with heat and sweat. My mind was wandering and I happened to think about someone I have good cause to really, really dislike--though fortunately his role in my life is well past. My first thought was to use that anger, along with my iPod music, to hit a rhythm and move forward more strongly. But suddenly I found myself flagging and weary, much more so than I had been. And then I thought of my readings on fire and moved to positive imagery, forgetting that jerk and instead thinking of a flame kindled inside me and radiating outwards. My pace picked up and I powered forward again, feeling much more comfortable. I've never experimented with this kind of imagery before, so the power of the positive flame--and the taxing feeling of negative thoughts--was a revelation!

Today I did have a chance to both meditate and pray, but I've felt really scattered recently and it was a challenge to get centered. (As an aside: It doesn't help that, literally, I don't know how to pray. I am sure there are many traditional ways. Supplication, meditation, openness to the moment? But I have not been taught any of them.) I couldn't decide how to approach my time, and found myself jumping from mindfulness meditation to Christian meditation to prayer. At long last, in a traditional posture of prayer, I settled in and, interspersing my thinking with a prayer to be opened to the understanding and experience of fire, turned over some of my favorite images and words from Christine's book:

• the bush that burned but was not consumed, and Moses removing his shoes as he realized he was on holy ground
• the transfiguration of Jesus, and the mystic who said it was not that Jesus shined brightly but that the disciples were, for a moment, able to see him as he truly was
• the story of the Abba Joseph, who said "why not become fire?" as his ten fingers became like ten lamps
• the burning of the sun and its reflection by the "mirrored ball" of the moon
• the heat of a summer's day
• the spark of life
• the fires burning at the core of the earth, revealed to us directly or indirectly by volcanoes, geysers, and vents
• the images of deserts and purification; the fire which burns all of that except which is necessary
• the Ironwing Tarot, which was made in the desert, by a woman who is a blacksmith, and is filled with symbolism deriving from both

(When thinking about volcanoes and vents I also focused on a painting I just bought, after much anticipation. It is called "Shedding" and the artist says: "This is a painting about ancestry. The antlers and the steam grow from the same source. The ground is wetter and warmer around the source; moss and lichen grow there more readily." Not directly fiery, but I find it compelling!)

I thought about that sacred moment, being in the presence of the magical fire that does not burn. What would it feel like, to see the sort of light that makes you realize you are in the presence of God? To be on ground so holy, you remove your shoes? And then I thought, but as the mystic said about the story of Jesus's transfiguration, that light permeates everything; it is just a question of whether, in the moment, we see it. And for a few moments I could see myself, kneeling in prayer, bathed in fire and radiating light.

I thought, too, about how these images show two different kinds of fire, the fire that burns and the fire that does not. But even the fire that burns does not burn everything: it purifies and leaves only the necessary, the bare bones of what is. What is more, even the hottest fire can be a creative force, not destructive: out of the hottest fires of all emerge glass work, diamonds and rubies, gold and silver work, iron things and metal. I saw an image of gifts emerging from fire, and it was surprising and joyful to realize that in fire, as in just about any aspect of our universe, destruction and creation are coupled: to strip down to the necessary and the barest elements or to subject something to brutal heat and pressure can lead, in the end, to proliferation, newness, and beauty.

This week I'll hope to build on these reflections and continue to gain an understanding of fire rooted in my heart and not my head: especially to think more on fire as a creative, bountiful, and life-giving force even when it is simultaneously searing or stripping down. And I will continue to be aware of light, illumination, creativity, passion, life, and warmth: not in the overwhelmingly obvious or ham-handed way I seem to have pictured them until now, but envisioning them as woven throughout my everyday life, and becoming more conscious of fire's many little sparks as a matrix in which I move and exist, just as much as I exist in an ocean of air.

A thought about the general theme of this series: resurrection. I am indeed finding this a time of resurrection, but I am also finding that it doesn't help me to look at the topic of "my self" or "my needs" too specifically or directly. It feels too much like me, me, me, uninteresting and limited and prone to make me neurotic or to feel sorry for myself. Instead I find that when I turn my thoughts outward, I grow on the inside. I suppose the analogy would be tending the garden--tilling the soil, letting in lots of light, watering it--rather than overpruning the plant. So these things I am letting unfurl gently, of their own accord, for now.

Mid-Week Thoughts on Air

We've been thinking about air this week during the Easter e-course from Abbey of the Arts, taught by Christine Valters Paintner.

First, I had to share this amazing link, via Evil Mad Scientist Laboratories, who say:

Ken Murphy's A History of the Sky is a fantastic art project recording, collecting, and displaying time-lapse movies of the San Francisco sky.

The movies are displayed side-by-side in high definition-- one little video for each day --and synchronized to show the same time of day in each movie. It's simply stunning to see the progression in the length of the days as the seasons change.

Here's the video:



(You can read more about the project here.)

In Christine's book Water, Wind, Earth & Fire: The Christian Practice of Praying with the Elements, she offers a meditation or prayer based upon Pierre Teilhard de Chardin's conception of "the breathing together of all things." One expands one's consciousness, first from one's own breath, then to that of loved ones, to the breathing of all people, to that of all creatures, to trees and plant life--"which offer us a mutual exchange of breath. Allow this prayer to connect you to the vast matrix of pulsing life within which we live" (p. 23).

This was deeply evocative for me when I first read it and imagined the breathing of the entire planet. And when I came across this video it seemed the perfect visualization of invisible, fluid air that circulates constantly all over our planet, as the breath of animals, people, and plants, carrying clouds and rain, eternal motion and flowing. Every time I watch this video I am enthralled and feel that it is another way of experiencing the enormity and beauty of our globe and its atmosphere, in a sweeping and total visualization that reminds me of the famous "blue marble" picture of the earth seen from space.

I haven't even finished the "air" chapter and it has been revelatory several times over. In particular, besides this vision of the breathing of all creations, I was captivated by the meditations on "carried by the wind"--conceiving of giving up control and direction and entrusting these to God, the divine. Christine speaks of  the idea of "peregrinatio," purposefully submitting in trust and faith to God's direction: seeing where God's wind takes us. Our culture is so fascinated with responsibility, will, and control that, amazingly, I feel as if this thought is completely new to me: that abdicating the need to direct everything could be not only healthy, but the will of the divine. As Christine mentions, this does not mean that we ought to give up all self-direction, but it is deeply appealing to me to think about leaving some part of my life open to divine serendipity.

I have only had time to take a brief moment in the mornings to stand and face the east in prayer; but I am taking time to meditate, pray, read the book chapter, and stay mindful of the week's topic. Ever since childhood I have been fascinated with watching dust motes in the sun, little particles of water (steam from a shower, or fog), smoke--these give air shape and allow us to see air's fluidity and remind us that it surrounds us. This week I am returning to my fascination with all these things. I find myself constantly aware of wind and air in my day-to-day life, and often thinking of the rising sun in the east, the morning breezes, the birds gliding about tree branches, and their calls ... I feel a bit as if part of my soul is living in the treetops right now. This week is a perfect time to think about all these things, too, as our part of the world has been waking up from cold and rain into warmth, spring buds, and sun!

And, as often happens when everything is right and you are in the "flow," I keep on hearing about airy thoughts and images everywhere. Last night I was listening to an archived Sound & Spirit program on dreams and heard famous language from Shakespeare's The Tempest:

Our revels now are ended. These our actors, 

As I foretold you, were all spirits, and

Are melted into air, into thin air:

And like the baseless fabric of this vision,

The cloud-capp'd tow'rs, the gorgeous palaces,

The solemn temples, the great globe itself,

Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,

And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,

Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff

As dreams are made on; and our little life

Is rounded with a sleep.

(The Tempest, Act 4, scene 1, 148–158)

Thanks to Shakespeare, we often use the phrase "melting into thin air", but the words have lasted because it says something about our assumptions. If there is nothing else, there is still air, invisible but omnipresent. For someone like myself who believes in the immanence of the divine, meditating upon air is a way to remind myself of the enormousness and pervasiveness of God throughout creation, but in another way the air itself is God (because everything is). Concentrating upon this helps me remember that our entire world is holy and filled with holiness. In this way sacred space, as I talked about earlier, exists everywhere as well.

To return to the central theme of this e-course, I am not sure what all this says about resurrection in my own life, but thinking on all these things continues to feel like a resurrection in itself, so I will cast my own spiritual coracle on these waters (or air) and go where I am taken.

Making Space for the Sacred

It's the end of a long and very non-spiritual week. (I guess we're supposed to think of Sunday as the beginning of the new week, but I would dare say most of us probably pair them up together as the "weekend.") Really, the past three weeks have been very spiritually dry, crammed with work, chores, and errands, and not enough sleep.

Today I received the packet for my Easter e-course at Abbey of the Arts--I've been so excited about this--and perhaps the most emphasized suggestion for this week is that we schedule time in our lives during this virtual retreat for reflection and prayer.

I don't disagree in the least, but this is a very challenging thing for me. First and foremost, I'm naturally disorganized and am not good at scheduling personal time. I've always wanted to be the sort of person who does laundry on Monday, dusting on Tuesday, etc., but I have not been very successful. (I'm working on it. But very slowly.) Second, I have two very young children. Even if I were a Monday-laundry sort of person, I would probably be falling behind at this time in my life.

Third, we live in an era when personal time is very, very short, and often fragmented, and fraught with distractions. I don't think we should get too sunny about past times in this regard: people worked damn hard, and their lives were often filled with chores and long days of unrelenting drudgery. But I do think they had a certain amount of free time built into their lives due to seasons, poorer evening lighting, a lack of constant communication (e.g. no cell phones), etc. It may be much more challenging to resist spontaneous and insistent demands on our attention today.

Fourth, we also live in an era where spiritual practice, despite getting a lot of lip service, is often devalued in practice. I suspect that most people, if you were to tell them you're a regular church-goer or that you're setting aside time to pray, might put you down as a goody-goody. I still feel an echo of this myself. Weirdly, my experience of church and worship has been entirely separate from the reflexive connotations I attach those same words.

In my own life I prioritize social events as much as possible. We've spent the past dozen years moving around a good amount, and so we haven't had the chance to sink deep roots in any one area. I really want to form and maintain closer friendships. But when I didn't attend my usual service on Easter so that we could see friends, I regretted it. I enjoyed seeing our friends, but missing out on celebrating that high holy day with the church friends I'm coming to know was surprisingly hard.

So this past weekend, when a friend had to cancel Saturday plans and asked to reschedule at 11 a.m. on Sunday, I dithered. What should I do? Then I thought about Easter and Christine's request for us to set aside personal time for devotion and I thought, okay. I have to make this time sacred to me.

And that's when it hit me. Make this time sacred?! By its very definition, it is sacred time--or, at least, it should be. Yet somehow, along the line, the expression--to make a time sacred--has become secularized and made shallow.

I cannot be a monk right now, or even an oblate. I probably won't be able to set aside as much time as I would like during this course to really worship. But what I can do is try, as much as possible, to reconnect with true sacred time. Sacred cannot mean simply "set aside for some secular purpose" but a real attempt to take oneself out of secular time as much as possible, in order to attune to deeper concerns.

I think this attempt to reach sacred time is best attached to sacred space, in the literal sense. Christine talks about this as well. She mentions creating an altar with an object for each of the four directions. This interests me because most pagans have a very similar altar in their homes, and most pagan rituals involve the creation of sacred space (usually the drawing of a circle). The space is felt to offer protection and sanctuary, but it is also meant to create a space outside of normal time and place. To approach this from the Christian perspective makes it fresh and new for me. I think of this effort as somehow trying to create a cathedral or labyrinth in your home. The creation of this sacred space will have to spring mostly from the mind and emotions, as I haven't got the time, square footage, or money to put in fan vaults or pews. Will I be able to create sacredness even in the middle of piles of laundry, or will I find myself needing at least a clean room? How does one cultivate the ability to shift perspective to sacredness in the midst of everyday life?

Unfortunately, I don't know if I will be able to follow her other major recommendation, which is to honor the element of air by praying just after rising, facing the east. Mornings are one of our most rushed times of the day, when it's really not possible to get time to myself. It doesn't help that--I'll admit it--I am really really not a morning person, especially since I've been sleep-deprived for three years now. But I know that there is one simple and very secular thing I can do to try to make some morning space: prepare my son's lunch ahead of time. So I'll do this tonight and try to make this a regular habit. (I ought to anyway.)

By the way: I did tell that friend that I wasn't available during most of Sunday morning, though I didn't say why (mostly because it felt like a private matter). I can't tell if I've offended her, and I worry that I have--a bit of a long story, there. But I think I did the right thing, and I was so glad to be back at home in my regular 11 a.m. service today.

Making sacred time sacred: a radical concept--for me, anyway.

A Little About Background and Children

I've been following Isabela Granic's blog, Child of Mind, since she started it. Originally it was focused on developmental psychology as it pertained to young children and sleep training. Then she opened it up to a co-author and a much wider discussion of other developmental issues relevant to parenting young kids. Recent topics include discipline, how children affect family dynamics and the parents' relationship, developmental snapshots of certain ages, etc.; all of these seen through the lens of developmental psychology, and more often than not supported with lots of science. It's a great resource, so I encourage all parents to check it out! (And I came there through Ask Moxie, which for some time has served as a sort of virtual village hut where parents, okay, mostly moms, can huddle together and offer wisdom and reassurance to one another, and be honest about the difficult parenting times when one thinks "I can't do this" or "I'm going to throttle that child" or "I think I might die if I don't get some sleep" or whatever. Another wonderful resource.)

Given her science-based approach, I was delighted and surprised to see that she broached the topic of religion the other day, beginning here and continuing here. Scientists, like journalists, seem to often feel culturally obligated to maintain a myth of objectivity, as if they have no personal opinions or values. In the literature, I suppose that makes sense, but Granic breaks that "fourth wall" a lot in her blog. Although it's a blog that often mixes the personal with science, I think it still takes guts to do so; especially when, mixing my metaphors, she's touching the "third rail" of religion (and mixing it with parenting ... yikes!). But let me hasten to say I think everything she is saying is wonderful. She makes it clear where research stops (fairly early on, in religion) and where her personal thoughts start. And the more we talk about religion and hear what everyone else thinks, the better. From the scientific perspective, it is essential to identify gaps that need to be explored. From the personal perspective, I'm interested in the questions she raises about what our beliefs are and how they're transmitted to children. I also love that her commenters have remained so open and civil, despite ranging all over the board. There's even an Episcopalian who sounds just like me!

I wrote a comment on the first post and thought I would put it down here as well, since it encapsulates my background and that means I won't have to do it again. I'm lazy like that.

I said:

I love ritual and tradition, and also have a deep need for spiritual thought and experience. I don't what I think about God. I don't have that feeling like some people do, that I *know* God is out there or that a God loves me, but I also think science (ironically) and critical thinking lead me to believe in something Other. Especially asking, where did the universe come from, and why did it start at one time and not another? For me science and religion are not mutually exclusive. However I'm not sure there's any psychological science I'm dying to see regarding religion, because people will hold the beliefs they do, and act on them accordingly, regardless of what psychology says the consequences are.

Since my teens I'd identified as pagan, because my God, such as it is, is immanent (present in all things), and I find spirituality in nature. I spent a long time trying different Unitarian churches. I liked their politics but it drove me nuts that they wouldn't talk about God, or morality, or values. Just this past year I discovered the Episcopalian Church and it's been a revelation, so to speak, for me. I've been attending and participating regularly.

For me Christianity and its scripture are not at all literal beliefs but deeply metaphorical. I take a much more historical viewpoint--a la John Dominic Crossan and Marcus Borg. From that angle, I really value its lens on morality, radical inclusion, wisdom, etc. I believe that anything that's lasted so long has something valuable to say, take comfort in the traditions from so long ago, and enjoy its strong connection to our cultural history.

Until she got too wiggly, I took my now-10-mo-old daughter to church and enjoyed having her blessed each week. I've never taken my 3-y-o son. He's too rambunctious for services and my husband prefers to spend time with him at home on the weekends rather than have him in church school. But I'm also highly hesitant to have him exposed to religious teaching while he's at such a literal age. At the same time, I was raised very agnostic and I regret not being raised with some kind of faith in the Other; I think it's much easier to acquire at a young age than at an older age, bar some startling religious experience.

I am now approaching my personal deadline for baptizing my daughter and it's causing me a lot of internal debate. We held a pagan baptism at home for my son and I thought it was really special and individual--people gave him all kinds of wishes corresponding to the four elements. Now I'm thinking about a church baptism for my daughter, but I'd miss the at-home version; and if I do have her baptized, should I have my son done too? Lots of questions, and no answers yet.

Easter

Easter has come and gone, somewhat anticlimactically. The Holy Week was filled with services, but it's hard for me to attend, between work and children. I did make it to a Monday evening Taizé service--about which more later; that was fascinating.

As to the big day itself, I'd suggested plans to a friend before I realized they fell on Easter, and then I felt bad about canceling. So I attended the 8 a.m. service instead of my usual, the 11 a.m.

Each service at our church has its own nature. The 9 a.m. is oriented toward children and their families. The children's choir sings, and everyone gathers around in a big circle for the Eucharist. Since I have young children, I feel that I should enjoy it, but I don't. I prefer more formality in my service, and I love the grand organ music of my service, the 11 a.m. The 11 sees many more older folks, but more young families have begun attending regularly.

I'd long wanted to try the 8 a.m. because it is Rite I, not Rite II, which I understood to be more formal in nature and without song. Attendance is sparse and also older. As it turned out there was a little singing, but not as much, and no choir; so, especially given that there weren't many of us, the music from the congregation was much more uncertain without its guidance. (The leadership did its best to shepherd us along by singing powerfully, which I appreciated.) The smaller amount of music makes the whole service much faster, only an hour.

The rite didn't actually seem all that different, but referred more often to the prayerbook instead of laying the details out in the program (or should I say spoon-feeding them to us, heh). Many of the attendees seemed to have memorized the rite, anyway. (I've often thought it would be nice to have memorized the basics--it would make it easier to concentrate on the language and prayer--but I'm not there yet.)

I missed my regular service: the people, the organ, the choir. I wished I was there for the baptisms taking place that day. And, perhaps because it was 8 a.m. and I'd had no time for coffee rushing out the door, I didn't feel very present. The service felt over and done before I'd had time to settle in.

It was a revelation to realize how much I appreciate the singing music. Sometimes I get a little tired of all the song midway through the 11 a.m. service. Sometimes I just want to sit in silence. But I guess it does give me time to think, process, or to just be, in between the speaking bits.

(I've always been clear on how much the organist's playing means to me. The organist, a canon, is a fundamental part of the church right now. He directs the adult and childrens' choirs, both of which are excellent and are real magnets for participation and attendance. After each service he plays a piece, usually Bach. There is nothing like the grandness of an organ to hear that baroque music, played with great skill echoing through the cathedral is a form of worship all in itself. I told him that if I didn't attend church for the worship, I would come just for his music.)

Let me be clear: I liked the service, but I just wanted the luxury of my 11 a.m. routine. The altar was done up beautifully, with whole flowering trees and forsythia and daffodil making a little garden, and an overwhelming profusion of blooms arranged into a little hill, as well as enormous bouquets festooning the pulpit and the sides of the later. The sermon was riveting, our priest's story of his recovery from polio--his own personal resurrection.

But look at all these details. I'm shying away from the central point, aren't I? It is hard for me to think about the resurrection. As a pagan, Jesus has been the most complicated part of my entry into Christianity. I do best thinking about Jesus in the historical Borg/Crossan style, or metaphorically. But even metaphor is a little challenging for me, here.

I have noticed, recently, that this investigation of the church feels like blossoming. I feel like I am opening up to something, in a lovely way. Pagans celebrate Easter as the Spring Equinox, on March 21st, when there is an equal amount of light and dark. On their Easter they emphasize fertility and springtime as the (Northern Hemisphere) moves out of the dark and into the light. Easter eggs and bunny rabbits, of course, are the icons of fertility that remind even Christians of those long-ago associations.

But this blooming is a slow and gradual process for me. The words "He is Risen," as emblazoned on our lovely church banner, are still foreign to me. I like to think of Christ as a woman--an awful heresy in many circles, I'm sure, but our priest didn't seem to mind when I told him this. It makes it easier for me to translate into metaphors. But it doesn't help here. What does the metaphor of Easter mean to me? What do resurrection, rebirth, fertility mean, in such close connection to the humanity Christ represents? These words make me feel creaky and slow and muddy-minded. I don't feel a connection to them in my heart.

I didn't realize all this until after Easter Sunday, when I started trying to write this post. But, in a burst of fantastic synchronicity (worth a post in its own--so perhaps more on that later, too) I am already signed up for a class at Abbey of the Arts that couldn't be more perfect for exploring these thoughts. The course description: "This 5-Week E-Course for the Easter Season invites you to practice resurrection through contemplative encounters with creation." I came across Abbey of the Arts just a couple weeks ago and it was almost a spiritual experience to read the website. The Abbey is created and run by Christine Valters Painter, a Christian and Benedictine Oblate, who links her faith closely to nature. Her perspective is almost pagan. There was someone like me out there! The knowledge and website alone were an enormous relief to me, and then it was an additional gift to see how much material (courses, books, thought) there was for me there. The course interested me purely for its focus on the elements; when I received the book and began reading I was filled with gratitude--it is all I could have hoped and more. I began reading and immediately fell into a meditation linking God and Air that have stayed with me since and provided much food for thought. To now anticipate the further gift of the perspective on Easter... my cup runneth over.

The course starts April 18th, and I can't wait. In the meantime I will be thinking about that profusion of flowers, and what does it mean to me to say, "He is Risen"?

First Post

Well, here I am.

I first thought about starting this blog a few days ago. A relative wrote to me about my newfound interest in the Episcopal church. I started a response to her email (which I still haven't sent... oh dear) and found myself going on. And on. And on. The more I thought about it, the more I realized I'm bursting with thoughts about my spiritual journey these days. I really don't know if they're interesting to anyone but me, but I'd rather write them down than have them spinning around in my head forever like some self-consuming ouroboros, so. The Rose Window, here it is.

I'm afraid I'm not very funny, so that's sort of the second strike (the first being that religion is not often a popular subject drawing in the masses, so to speak). But I'll be happy to have this a little quiet home, a little second brain so that I can clear out the primary one. (Not that I make great use of it anyway, har har.)

I suppose in the coming days I'll try to put down a little bit about where I'm coming from, and where I think I'm going.