At a recent seminar for ministers, we were led in various spiritual practices over the course of a few days. Many of those practices involved contemplative experiences—and, namely, silence. Silence. Quietude. Not speaking. No conversation. Not reading. Not doing. Just sitting in silence. I soaked up the silence with much gratitude. Excitement even. “Oh, good. I get to be still. And quiet. No phone. No computer. Nothing.” I need silence. I need time alone to recharge, to pray, to meditate—with the only sounds being the hum of a fan or the sacred purr of a cat or the ritual call of a choir of cicadas.
Being alone and being quiet provides me the opportunity to stay in touch with my core—It helps keep me grounded, and I need that time to connect with my source. It’s part of my spiritual practice. Thus I coveted the time of silent contemplation at the recent seminar, but not everyone felt that way. In one of our check-ins, a self-identified extrovert asked, with some obvious frustration: “Why aren’t we talking?! I need to be TALKING!” Meanwhile, the introverts among us were basking in the glow of the nothing, enjoying the private moments, soaking up the solitude, and coveting the chance to process as introverts do—inside our heads.
What a beautiful thing—that we are all so different. We left the seminar recognizing that the choices along our spiritual paths are just that---choices. And based on our personalities and histories, our preferences varied wildly. But it was clear that with intention, we could ground ourselves more fully through some steady practice or spiritual ritual.
Some took time at the beginning of the day for meditation; others finished their days with song or prayer. Some went for walks to the water while others formed groups for sharing and reflection. We discussed the varied nature of our spiritual paths and noted how a single act of intention could shift a focus—from concern over the most recent e-mail to an inward journey of self-discovery. From staring at a screen to looking at the faces of others in whose eyes, if we really look, we may see our own reflection—and perhaps even a spark of divinity.
What brings you into focus? What takes you to the core of your being, and what sustains you along your spiritual path? It could be practicing yoga or painting a prayer or making a mandala. It might mean deep sharing with a spiritual companion or scribbling in a journal. What grounds you? Is it spending time alone or sitting beneath the shelter and magnificence of a tree whose roots dig deep and whose limbs reach to the sky? Perhaps your spiritual path involves a number of these practices. Whatever the case may be, take time to ground yourself. A steady practice not only helps keep us on track, it also helps us light the way for others. If you need silence, find silence. If you need a creative outlet, mold clay or paint or create a collage! May we honor and encourage one another along the way.
~Rev. Mary Frances Comer
Thursday, September 3, 2015
Receiving the Invite
Do not try to save the whole world
or do anything grandiose.
Instead, create a clearing
in the dense forest of your life
and wait there patiently,
until the song that is your life falls
into your own cupped hands
and you recognize and greet it.
Only then will you know
how to give yourself to this world
so worthy of rescue.
-Clearing by Martha Postlewaite
Do you ever long for the clearings in your life?
When I was a student minister, a supervisor asked me about
my spiritual practices which cultivated quiet and renewal. I explained that I found renewal in being
engaged with the world (a strong extrovert).
He nodded and then inquired, “but where did you find the quiet?” I explained—to my credit—in an intricate way
that life was too busy for quiet.
I know what it is to run circles around my own life. When I don’t make the quiet spaces, the
clearings, in my own life I often ask what is it that I am afraid of? Often for me, I run circles in my life when I
am running away from something or when I have lost my trust in the world. A deep part of spiritual growth is developing
trust. For some, this trust is in God
and for others this trust is in an abiding love throughout creation.
It can be tempting to think of the clearing as a physical
space or time.
Christine Valters Painter, a Benedictine oblate, describes
the self in two parts.
The monk in me feels the call of moving
inward. My inner monk knows the deep
wisdom to be found in rest, in slowness and spaciousness, in not letting the
productivity of the world keep me running ever faster, that the only person who
can say "no" and stop and open up to the eternity of this moment, is
me. Like the bear, I know the power to
be gained from following my natural rhythms, rather than those the world around
me demands.
The pilgrim in me feels the call of
moving outward. My inner pilgrim feels a
longing to travel, to walk across new landscapes, to find myself the stranger
so that everything I think I know can be gently released in favor of the deeper
truth only revealed in the wandering.[1]
The clearings are all about the
inner monk. It is a balance of
cultivating the monk and the pilgrim. To
hear the invitation from the world to be a source of healing and change, we
need the clearing spaces. In the
clearing of our own lives, we meet our call and see plainly- beyond ego or
self- the ways in which our life can be part of the healing force already
flowing about us if we would stop to see its direction and know its quiet,
nearly invisible force.
May you find time and space to
hear the invitation of the world. She
waits in a beauty beyond brokenness and with an infinite hope as ancient as the
stars.
I’ll see you there,
Rev. Robin
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