and more, have our being

I spent the bulk of last week at Mepkin Abbey, in Monck's Corner, SC, just a half hour north of Charleston. I went to pray about my life, marriage, and vocation. I went also to rest, to write, to be alone long enough so that words can come to the wordless parts of me. I was surprised at how easily I slipped into the silence of the monastery, how right it felt to be alone and quiet for a few days. I walked away slow hours in the woods and gardens, spiraled through the labyrinth each morning, took at least two naps a day, read for a few hours in bed each night, and learned to listen for the bells calling us back to chapel for lauds, prime, terce. In many ways, it was more jarring to come back to the busyness of real life then to enter into the silence of the abbey.

"For I saw him and sought him; for now we are so blind and so unwise that we never seek God until out of his goodness he shows himself to us, and if he graciously lets us see something of himself, then we are moved by the same grace to seek with great longing to see him more fully; and thus I saw him and I sought him, I had him and I wanted him. And it seems to me that this is, or should be, our usual way of proceeding."

(Julian of Norwich, Revelations of Divine Love)

on prayer | 18

"As for myself, I have found faith not to be a comfort but a provocation to a life I never seem to live up to, an eruption of joy that evaporates the instant I recognize it as such, an agony of absence that assaults me like a psychic wound. As for my children, I would like them to be free of whatever particular kink there is in me that turns every spiritual impulse into anguish. Failing that, I would like them to be free to make of their anguish a means of peace, for themselves or others (or both), with art or action (or both). Failing that—and I suppose, ultimately, here in the ceaseless machinery of implacable matter, there is only failure—I would like them to be able to pray, keeping in mind the fact that, as St. Anthony of the Desert said, a true prayer is one that you do not understand."

(Christian Wiman, "I Will Love You in the Summertime")
-

this to that

may the tide

that is entering even now
the lip of our understanding
carry you out
beyond the face of fear
may you kiss
the wind then turn from it
certain that it will
love your back may you
open your eyes to water
water waving forever
and may you in your innocence
sail through this to that

[Lucille Clifton]

on prayer | 17

"Almighty God, Father of all mercies,
we your unworthy servants give you humble thanks
for all your goodness and loving-kindness
to us and to all whom you have made.
We bless you for our creation, preservation,
and all the blessings of this life;
but above all for your immeasurable love
in the redemption of the world by our Lord Jesus Christ;
for the means of grace, and for the hope of glory.
And, we pray, give us such an awareness of your mercies,
that with truly thankful hearts we may show forth your praise,
not only with our lips, but in our lives,
by giving up our selves to your service,
and by walking before you
in holiness and righteousness all our days;
through Jesus Christ our Lord,
to whom, with you and the Holy Spirit,
be honor and glory throughout all ages. Amen."

(The General Thanksgiving, Daily Morning Prayer: Rite Two, BCP)

intent on what they touch

We were out of breakfast foods this morning, so today began by walking to the coffee shop around the block to pick up some muffins, which A. and I shared together on our porch, drinking coffee and avoiding a bee. It was a much needed slow morning after an all too busy week—one of those weeks which by the end of it I had no energy or kindness left to offer anyone.

Other things, lately:

Sarah Coakley on prayer (part II and III, as well).

Caroline Walker Bynum on Gertrude of Helfta.

Bruce Herman came over for dinner a few weeks back—and what a gift. He has a way of articulating what my own work is about that helps it become suddenly much clearer in my mind, and has encouraged me to plunge back into it. I needed that.

I have also been thinking about habits vs. rituals, and how those play out in my day-to-day life—what are those rote daily tasks that could become something more intentional, more beautiful?

I still think often about the food I had in Italy last summer—how simple, fresh, and good it was—and have been trying to emulate that approach in my own cooking. Rachel Roddy's column A Kitchen in Rome in The Guardian has been especially inspiring.

Dreaming about going to Look3 in Charlottesville. I have also been dreaming about going here.

And, here is a poem for the Feast of the Annunciation, an image for Good Friday, and a poem for when both fall on the same day (which apparently won't happen again for another century).

[Honeywell Pentax, 35mm, Durham, NC]

bright sadness

"'Yet even now,' declares the Lord, 'return to me with all your heart, with fasting, with weeping, and with mourning; and rend your hearts and not your garments.' Return to the Lord your God, for he is gracious and merciful, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love; and he relents over disaster. Who knows whether he will not turn and relent, and leave a blessing behind him...?" (Joel 2:12-14)

"A journey, a pilgrimage! Yet, as we begin it, as we make the first step into the 'bright sadness' of Lent, we see—far, far away—the destination. It is the joy of Easter, it is the entrance into the glory of the Kingdom." (Alexander Schmemann)

And, this poem.

[painting by Alfonse Borysewicz]

you are my crag

Lately:

Florist, on repeat.

These words, and all of Citizen: An American Lyric, by Claudia Rankine.

One Day Projects by Eliot Dudik and Jared Ragland.

Everything about this house, especially the bedroom.

A. gave me this beautiful book by John Berger for Christmas, which I am thrilled about.

The weekend consisted of this, breakfast club, bread-baking, the farmer's market, and much time spent outside. All good things.

Also, these words, from Minor White:

"If [the photographer] were to walk a block in a state of sensitized sympathy to everything to be seen, he would be exhausted before the block was up and out of film long before that. Perhaps the blank state of mind can be likened to a pot of water almost at the boiling point. A little more heat—an image seen—and the surface breaks into turbulence. Possibly the creative work of the photographer consists in part of putting himself into this state of mind. Reaching it, at any rate, is not automatic. It can be aided by always using one’s camera for serious work so that the association of the camera in one’s hands always leads to taking pictures."

[35mm]