Cracked

Kingdom of Acorns

Once upon a time, in a not-so-faraway land, there was a kingdom of acorns, nestled at the foot of a grand old oak tree.  Since the citizens of this kingdom were modern, fully Westernized acorns, they went about their business with purposeful energy; and since they were midlife, baby-boomer acorns, they engaged in a lot of self-help courses.  There were seminars called “Getting All You Can Out of Your Shell.”  There were woundedness and recovery groups for acorns who had been bruised in their original fall from the tree.  There were spas for oiling and polishing those shells and various acornopathic therapies to enhance longevity and well-being.

One day in the midst of this kingdom there suddenly appeared a knotty little stranger, apparently dropped “out of the blue” by a passing bird.  He was capless and dirty, making an immediate negative impression on his fellow acorns.  And crouched beneath the oak tree, he stammered out a wild tale.  Pointing upward at the tree, he said, “we...are...that!”

Delusional thinking, obviously, the other acorns concluded, but one of them continued to engage him in conversation: “So tell us, how would we become that tree?”  “Well, said he, pointing downward, “it has something to do with going into the ground...and cracking open the shell.”  “Insane,” they responded.  “Totally morbid!  Why, then we wouldn’t be acorns anymore.”

—Cynthia Bourgeault’s version of the metaphor devised by Maurice Nicoll, and popularized by Jacob Needleman

I wanted to write something wise and profound about the process of going into the ground and cracking open but it just isn't working. In fact, writing isn't working for me lately. It's usually one of those things that helps me crack open my shell of illusion, but for the past few weeks every time I sit down in front of a blank computer screen I come face to face with fear. It's not that I don't have ideas. I have plenty of ideas so it's not the typical sort of writer's block I'm afraid of.  Rather, it's the actual process, the very act of writing that has become excruciating.

I've faced this situation before in my meditation practice. Every once in a while I settle into my morning period of Centering Prayer and twenty seconds in I feel like my skin is being pulled off layer by layer or a tidal wave of panic sweeps in from who knows where and I feel like I'm drowning in the silence. Sometimes I stick it out and pray that it gets easier as the minutes progress.  Sometimes it does. But sometimes it doesn't.  And sometimes I don't wait to find out.  I flee at the first sensation of discomfort, running towards any noise will distract me from whatever is trying to work its way out.

Cracking open sucks. It's painful and messy and confusing. Anyone who buys into the idea of blissful transformation, an easy path to nirvana, obviously hasn't observed nature in action. Acorn to oak tree, cracking open and up, insane indeed.

And there's something not only about breaking open but also about going into the dark that's crucial during these times. For too long I tried to crack open without going into those shadowy places of my being.  I'm realizing, though, that it's in just these places where the fuel for true transformation is to be found. So I'm heading for the dark where I'll continue to be for a while, digging deeper into that loamy earth, slowly cracking, slowly growing.

Women Reading - A Virtual Art Gallery

There is No Frigate Like a Book by Emily Dickinson

There is no Frigate like a Book

To take us Lands away

Nor any Coursers like a Page

Of prancing Poetry –

This Traverse may the poorest take

Without oppress of Toll –

How frugal is the Chariot

That bears the Human Soul –

   I was feverishly languishing in bed last week with a knock-out duo of maladies, one that responded to antibiotics, the other to time and rest.  So as part of the rest remedy, I read.  And when my heard hurt too much to read, I listened to pod casts about reading.  (The “A Good Read” feature, part of the BBC’s “Books and Authors” podcast is my favorite.) 

   So since I haven’t done a virtual art gallery post in a while, I thought it was time for an exhibit on “Women Reading.”  With so many choices it was hard to narrow down my favorites but here are a few that struck me as particularly worthy of aspiring to imitate this summer.  Now off to grab a peach and a book a la Matisse.

Picasso - Two Girls Reading

Fragonard - A Young Woman Reading

Melchers - Lady Reading

Macke - Reading Woman

Matisse - Woman Reading with Peaches

Cassatt - Young Woman Reading

Carpe Libris: The Summer of My Content Edition

The disbelief began when I mentioned I wouldn't be buying any books this summer.  The horror set in when I added I wouldn't be going to the library either.  My friends, both those who share my addiction to books and those who have enabled me in the past,were worried.  My health and my sanity were questioned.  Until I explained that this is the summer I plan on reading only books I already own.

The see for this idea started a few weeks ago when I was looking for a book I knew I owned and couldn't find.  Was in the basement with my Celtic spirituality collection?  Or upstairs on the travel shelves?  Or maybe it was in the British Isles history section.  As I pulled out books to look behind and in between stacks, I didn't find what I was looking for but I did find a lot of books I've never read.

"This looks interesting," I thought pulling out a travel narrative written by a poet I picked up in Wales last year and placing it on my bed.  (Just to clarify-- I picked up the book in Wales, not the poet.  As I re-read that I realized it sounded a bit racier an anecdote than it actually was.)  Soon the unopened green paperback was joined by a well worn copy of To the Lighthouse which I've been meaning to re-read.  And then there was the young adult novel written by a friend.  A coming of age mystery set in the Maritime provinces, it looked like good summer reading.  And how many times over the past two decades have I paged through Diane Ackerman's A Natural History of the Senses and not read the whole thing, cover to cover?  On to the bed it went.  By the time I found the book I was looking for (already in a "to read" stack of books I put by my bed from last year) I had over a dozen volumes in my summer reading pile.

The next day I reclaimed my old Kindle paper white from father, who has given up reading himself in favor of being read to.  With the arrival of warmer weather, most weekends at some point I head out to the backyard with a blanket and a book to lounge under the maple tree to read for a couple hours.  This year, however I discovered that I needed both sunglasses and reading glasses.  I love real books but two benefits to e-readers are being able to carry a library's worth of books with me at all times and adjustable print size.  I switched the registration back on the old Kindle to my Amazon account and as the archives updated I discovered I had over 400 unread books ready to be downloaded.  I was  somewhat restrained and chose only two dozen to add to my potential summer reading list.

So what all that means for you, dear readers, is that it's time for another edition of Carpe Libris.  We'll see how much space I've made on my shelves-- both read and virtual-- by the end of the summer when I update you on what I actually read but until then, here's a taste of what I plan on reading in the upcoming months.

Clementine in the Kitchen
There's something about summer that makes me want to read food writing, especially tales of food in foreign lands.  The Modern Library Food Series offers ten selections chosen by former Gourmet editor Ruth Reichl.  Part memoir, part history, part cookbook, Clementine in the Kitchen follows the story of a family from pre-WWII France to Massachusetts where their cook, Clementine, tries to introduce Yankees to the delights of French cooking long before anyone outside the OSS had heard of Julia Child.  If I find myself still hungry for more food writing this summer, I may move onto a couple other books from the series-- High Bonnet if I'm in the mood for a novel or The Supper of the Lamb for a more spiritual take on the art of cooking and eating.

Summer is always a great time for a compelling page turner.  I first heard about The Luminaries last year when it was short-listed for the Man Booker prize, an

award it went on to win.  Critics loved it for its form and style.  The idea of a modern twist on a Victorian novel is right up my alley.  Set in New Zealand during the gold rush, the story begins on the proverbial dark and stormy night when a stranger arrives in town and stumbles into a mysterious gathering.  With mysteries, conspiracies, a complex cast of characters, and a promised ghost story in the mix, I'm saving this one for August to get me out of the post-holiday slump that always happens when I return home after a trip.

And speaking of vacation, In mid-July I'm heading to New England with a friend for a driving holiday around Massachusetts, Vermont and Maine.  In preparation for our travels I've already begun reading a ton of Thoreau (Walking, The Maine Woods, Wild Apples, and of course, Walden) as well as Nathaniel Philbrick's history of Nantucket Away Off Shore.  While away I may dip into Edith Wharton's Summer but more likely I'll want some light reading so I think E F Benson's Miss Mapp and Queen Lucia will provide plenty of light-hearted entertainment for evenings when we're too stuffed with Lobster rolls and blueberries to do much else but lounge around a quaint inn and read.

And while I may break out the traditional Mary Poppins at some point, after my White Queen experience a couple weeks ago, this is the summer I will finally read for myself Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, Through the Looking Glass and What Alice Found There.  Who knows, perhaps I'll find more spiritual wisdom from Charles Lutwidge Dodgson among the words of Lewis Carroll.  At the very least it will allow me to exorcise the Disney images I have of Alice and friends and allow me to form visions of my own.

So that's a sample of what's on my reading list for the summer.  Let me know what literary treats you're planning on consuming this season!

A Lewis Carroll Inspired Spiritual Practice for a Long Over-due Mary Oliver Monday

Evidence by Mary Oliver from Evidence (Beacon Press)

Where do I live? If I had no address, as many people
do not, I could nevertheless say that I lived in the
same town as the lilies of the field, and the still
waters.

Spring, and all through the neighborhood now there are
strong men tending flowers.

Beauty without purpose is beauty without virtue. But
all beautiful things, inherently, have this function -
to excite the viewers toward sublime thought. Glory
to the world, that good teacher.

Among the swans there is none called the least, or
the greatest.

I believe in kindness. Also in mischief. Also in
singing, especially when singing is not necessarily
prescribed.

As for the body, it is solid and strong and curious
and full of detail; it wants to polish itself; it
wants to love another body; it is the only vessel in
the world that can hold, in a mix of power and
sweetness: words, song, gesture, passion, ideas,
ingenuity, devotion, merriment, vanity, and virtue.

Keep some room in your heart for the unimaginable.

As of this morning, I've begun a new spiritual practice:  believing six impossible things before breakfast.  

I'm not sure how the idea actually came to me.  One minute I was writing about how blah and uninspired I feel and the next I was channeling the White Queen. 

I confess I haven't read any of Lewis Carroll's Alice books in their entirety (although stay tuned for a future Carpe Libris summer edition in which I plan on expanding my horizons and reading Alice in lieu of the usual Mary Poppins this year) so I don't know if the White Queen is a good spiritual teacher or not.  But I do know that setting aside half an hour a day for a spiritual practice-- be it meditation, journaling, yoga, or even stretching my imagination to entertain new possibilities-- is good.  

Lately I've felt constrained by perceived impossibilities-- doors appear to be locked, shut, or too small and difficult to fit through so I don't bother trying.  I have been feeling not unlike this picture of Alice yet I resigned myself to the situation rather than looking for a way out. This feeling of confinement started to impact the choices I made on a daily basis and this morning I finally realized I was feeling more than a little cramped. 

Choosing to spend some time each day believing-- or at least practicing believing-- that there are other choices, other possibilities, may not change reality but it likely will change my perception of reality.  It's kind of like prayer.  After many years of study and practice I've come to understand that the power of prayer isn't that it changes or influences God or a specific situation, the real power of prayer is that it changes me.  And that's an impossibility worth believing in.  

What it means to be AWOL

AWOL=Aprhodite with out limbs?

Here it is, the second full week of Lent and no poetry . . . and no blogging since January.  Yikes!  I realize I have been AWOL . . . active with other liabilities.  (Thank you thesaurus.com for help coming up with that new acronym) and I apologize.

I debated long and hard before deciding NOT to keep up the tradition of posting a poem a day for Lent on these pages.  I just don't have the time and energy this year.  Rather than attempting to take on the task and falling short or neglecting other areas of my work that need attention, I'm publicly owning up to my limitations . . . which is actually my Lenten practice for 2014.  This year I'm trying to, if not embrace, at least more gracefully accept my imperfections, be in and with discomfort, and just generally choose honesty and vulnerability over masks and denial.

Whew.  That work alone feels like a full time job.  On top of that I'm in the midst of promoting the upcoming pilgrimage to Wales in July.  (Click here to learn more.)  And continuing my work with the Cathedral.  And have been leading a retreat or two a month since November.  And  . . .

I launched another blog today:  Postcards from the Pilgrim's Path.  The new blog is a way of weaving another thread into the tapestry of work I'm doing through Anam Cara Retreats.  Please feel free to check it out and subscribe if you're interested in Celtic spirituality.

I'll still post here periodically-- poems and musings that aren't related to the Celtic stuff.  Just not as often as I have done in the past, but hopefully more often than I have done recently.

I hope you'll stick with me as I ease into a new rhythm of blogging.   And as a thank you for your patience, I'll leave you with this poem, one I've posted in the past but has been hanging around with me this Lent in particular, as you'll no doubt understand after you've read it.

PERFECTION

by Killian McDonnell, O.S.B. from Swift Lord, You Are Not (St. John's University Press)                   

I have had it with perfection.
I have packed my bags,
I am out of here.
Gone.

As certain as rain
will make you wet,
perfection will do you
in.

It droppeth not as dew
upon the summer grass
to give liberty and green
joy.

Perfection straineth out
the quality of mercy,
withers rapture at its
birth.

Before the battle is half begun,
cold probity thinks
it can't be won, concedes the
war.

I've handed in my notice,
give back my keys,
signed my severance check, I
quit.

Hints I could have taken:
Even the perfect chiseled form of
Michelangelo's radiant David
squints,

the Venus de Milo
has no arms,
the Liberty Bell is
cracked.

 

Tudor drama, false eyelashes, and a Christmas poetry haul

Tyndale faces his dissertation committee

Back when I was deep in the muck and mire of working on my dissertation I came to rely on two great escapes to keep me sane:  watching The Tudors on DVD and reading beauty blogs.  The Tudors was oddly comforting as the worst fate waiting me if I failed in my attempts to get people to reclaim their authentic voice in prayer was that my thesis wouldn't be proved.  Poor William Tyndale, he met a fiery end simply for encouraging people to claim the right to read the Bible in their own language.  With no funeral pyre in my future, I plugged along with my work.  As advisers and wives came and their heads went, as Henry grew fatter (or at least as fat as they could make the lithesome Jonathan Rhys Meyers appear) and more paranoid, I continued to research and write and when Tudor England and twenty-first century theopoetics got to be too much for me, I'd sneak a peek at posts on five ways to wear one lipstick or watch video tutorials on the easiest way to put on false eyelashes.  (I tried it once for a party.  While it was indeed easy to attach the lashes, I showed up at the door of my best gay friend who took one look at the feathery extensions and said, "I don't like them."  Oh well-- the tutorial promised it would be easy not necessarily look good.)

When the Tudors and my dissertation work came to an end, so did my foray into the world of beauty blogs. And while I can only remember one or two ways to wear my favorite lipstick, I do recall one of the things I picked up from all those nondescript beauty blogs I plowed through:  what the word "haul" means in blog/vlog terms.  a large assortment of stuff acquired at one time. Usually said bloggers/vloggers would show their haul and their first impressions of products.  

This morning as I was preparing to wedge my new poetry books I received for Christmas on my stuffed shelves, I thought, "If it's done with make up, why not with books?"  So here you have it:  samples from my first ever poetry haul.  

River Flow:  New & Selected Poems by David Whyte

I've just dipped into this a bit, rereading a few old favorites and nibbling at some new-to-me poems including this one:

THE WELL OF GRIEF

Those who will not slip beneath

     the still surface on the well of grief,

turning down through its black water

     to the place we cannot breathe,

will never know the source from which we drink,

     the secret water, cold and clear,

and find in the darkness glimmering,

     the small round coins,

           thrown by those who wished for something else.

Selected Poems by Kerry Hardie

Although I've only discovered the poetry of Kerry Hardie in the past year or so, she's been well known and much lauded in Ireland for several years.  I've posted one of her poems before on this blog  and have often thought about posting the much longer "Sheep Fair Day' which I love.  You can listen to the audio of her reading that poem, found in this book, here.  

    

feminine gospels by Carol Ann Duffy

This book is somewhat of a departure from the type of poetry I normally read.  While I admire the work of the UK's current poet laureate, the types of poems I usually read tend to be like looking at a snap shot in time through a magnifying glass and focusing on a particular moment.  This collection of poems is more narrative in structure, each telling the story of a particular woman-- Elizabeth I looking back on her long but lonely reign as queen, that prolific author Anonymous, and one of my favorites, the thin woman trapped inside the fat woman trying to get out.  

To the Moon:  An Anthology of Lunar Poems 

I have to confess that even though I'm including this book as part of my Christmas haul, I don't actually have it in my hands yet as it had to be ordered from the UK.  I was hoping it would arrive in time to read tonight by the light of the first full moon of the new year and while there's still time for our mailman to come through for me, I won't hold my breath. Instead, I'm looking forward to February's full moon when I can read lunar poetry from the likes of Ted Hughes, Denise Levertov, Philip Larkin, May Swenson, R.S. Thomas, Carol Ann Duffy (the editor) and others.  

Finding stars everywhere

In Too Much Light by Jessica Powers from The Selected Poetry of Jessica Powers (ICS Publications)
The Magi had only one star to follow, 
a single sanctuary lamp hung low,
gold ornament in the astonished air.
I am confounded in this latter day;
I find stars everywhere.

Rumor locates the presence of a night
out past the loss of a perishable sun
where, round midnight, I shall come to see
that all the stars are one.

I long for this night of the onement of stars

when days of scattered shining are my lot

and my confusion.  Yet faith even here

burns her throat dry, cries:  on this very spot
of mornings, see, there is not any place
when the sought Word is not.
Under and over, in and out, this morn
flawlessly, purely, wakes the newly born.
Behold, all places which have light in them
truly are Bethlehem

When I was in college I took an astronomy class that included an evening lab time.  On a few occasions, we ventured outside to the football field and look at the stars, identifying constellations and planets in the midnight blue sky.  Rather my classmates would identify the heavenly bodies in the solar system.  I would just marvel at the stars, awed and overwhelmed.  My teacher gently tried to guide me through the assignments, encouraging me to find the north star and begin from there.  The problem was I was directionally challenged at the time and his instructions that it was "the brightest star in the sky" didn't work for me.  My eye would move from one bright object to the next, never able to decide which was shining brightest.  He finally gave up and just let me enjoy light where I found it.

This somehow seems like an important memory with which to begin the new year.  The end of 2013 slipped through my hands like a skittish kitten and I have the scrapes and scratches to prove it. Rather than focusing on resolutions this year-- the shoulds, and oughts-- I think maybe I'll just resolve for 2014 to be open to the light where ever I find it.