The incredible contrast between Koyo and Osaka, in terms of people. The little alley way we were staying on that was so frenetic and so busy, lights flashing, hawkers at the door. It occured to me that this was the sort of space that Madeline Delbrel would have considered contemplative space, the soundscape no less quiet than the roaring waters running just past the temple we stayed in the previous night.
Seeing from the bus how tightly Osaka and Kobe are confined by the mountains, pushed up against the sea, I begin to understand why every possible inch is cultivated, why there are rice paddies in Kyoto city, and why the impossibly steep hills around Kamikatsu were terraced with fields.
It was a long travel day, we left the hotel in Osaka at about eight and didn't arrive in Kamikatsu until about 3 this afternoon. We took the express bus from Osaka to Tokushima, then two local buses which labored to carry us up into the mountains. We saw the permanent whirlpool in the Naruta Straits which connect the Pacific to the Inland Sea - very cool to see from the bridge, undoubtedly frightening if you were in a boat.
Kamikatsu is a zero waste village of about 2000 people in the mountains of Tokushima prefecture. Food waste is composted, everything else goes into 34 different recycling streams. I do mean everything else, from disposable diapers to cooking oil to the caps on bottles (separate from the bottles themselves). And the materials must be washed. There is no garbage or recycling collection, you have to deal with your own garbage, bringing it to the zero waste facility and sorting it.
We visited the facility, and wandering around looking at the waste prompted a return to some of my contemplations of the First Week of the Spiritual Exercises. Seeing all the ways in which the discards of living had to be painstakingly sorted, washed, taken apart was a potent reminder of how infrequently I think about where my stuff comes from, where it goes to, who makes it, and what effect my desire for things has on the world. I've been hyperaware all evening about my discards, knowing that someone will have to sort out the used tissues from the small ice cream container from the wooden spoon that was packed inside of it.
Swapping shoes at various thresholds, from outside shoes to slippers indoors, to socks on tatami, to special slippers for the bathroom, is making me very aware of changes in place as well as the purpose of the space - akin to my experience last winter when all the alarms went off in the dark chapel at the Jesuit Center.
We visited a shrine on top of the mountain (I forgot my pilgrimage book, alas, though did collect the seal on a sheet of paper), and walked nearly up to the old caves which are still used for a walking meditation. We're at 550 meters here, and between the jet lag, the slight bit of altitude, and a long walk this morning lugging my 25 pounds of stuff (yet another way to be aware of the weight of what you have, carry it around for a few hours), I was tired. There are 88 little shrines on the site, to allow you to walk the 88 shrine pilgrimage without have to travel, I made it to within 4 shrines of the top before surrendering to exhaustion. The views from the trail were spectacular, I wish my pictures did them justice, but the light was not great.
We visited a waterfall long used as a religious site, Dragon God. The rain from the typhoon means that there was a lot of water, folding like silk as it fell.
A lovely dinner at friends of Hank's closed off the day. No wireless here so this will get posted from somewhere else on the road. No photos until I get better internet!
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
A different kind of luxury
The mountain scenery here is gorgeous, the town is seated along a mountain gorge, the river running full after the typhoon. The day dawns clear, with the clarity we were told to expect in its aftermath.
We drove up into the mountains to see an artist, Nakamura-san, who works in paper and fabric, beautiful little fan books filled with small pencil drawings, wood block prints and fabric collages. The incredibly narrow road up here wound tightly up the gorge, past tiny terraces, rice paddies, lotus fields and vegetables.
Nakamura lives a deliberately simple life in an old barn tucked up into the side of the mountain, his water comes gravity fed from the nearby stream, his bath water is solar heated, he cooks over a traditional Japanese mud and brick hearth. His studio/bedroom is in a loft over the barn, with shoji that open floor to (low) ceiling onto a view that is nothing short of spectacular. I had instant hermitage envy, yet to completely dissipate I must admit.
He made us tea over the hearth, which we drank upstairs while talking and looking at some of his work. He showed us how he carved the woodblocks for the prints, with tools he made himself, which thus fit his hand perfectly.
Our host in the retreat center kindly drove us back to Tokushima to catch the train, so we didn't have to do the two bus traverse of Tokushima prefecture. I thought I had mastered the Japanese bathroom, until I was faced with trying to use one on a wildly swaying train. I decided to take a pass. Tonight we are on Naoshima Island, sleeping in yurts a few yards from Japan's Inland Sea. I suspect the morning view will be spectacular, though since we didn't arrive until late tonight, all I can see are shadows of other islands out there.
Monday, May 30, 2011
Revisiting the First Week
The incredible contrast between Koyo and Osaka, in terms of people. The little alley way we were staying on that was so frenetic and so busy, lights flashing, hawkers at the door. It occured to me that this was the sort of space that Madeline Delbrel would have considered contemplative space, the soundscape no less quiet than the roaring waters running just past the temple we stayed in the previous night.
Seeing from the bus how tightly Osaka and Kobe are confined by the mountains, pushed up against the sea, I begin to understand why every possible inch is cultivated, why there are rice paddies in Kyoto city, and why the impossibly steep hills around Kamikatsu were terraced with fields.
It was a long travel day, we left the hotel in Osaka at about eight and didn't arrive in Kamikatsu until about 3 this afternoon. We took the express bus from Osaka to Tokushima, then two local buses which labored to carry us up into the mountains. We saw the permanent whirlpool in the Naruta Straits which connect the Pacific to the Inland Sea - very cool to see from the bridge, undoubtedly frightening if you were in a boat.
Kamikatsu is a zero waste village of about 2000 people in the mountains of Tokushima prefecture. Food waste is composted, everything else goes into 34 different recycling streams. I do mean everything else, from disposable diapers to cooking oil to the caps on bottles (separate from the bottles themselves). And the materials must be washed. There is no garbage or recycling collection, you have to deal with your own garbage, bringing it to the zero waste facility and sorting it.
We visited the facility, and wandering around looking at the waste prompted a return to some of my contemplations of the First Week of the Spiritual Exercises. Seeing all the ways in which the discards of living had to be painstakingly sorted, washed, taken apart was a potent reminder of how infrequently I think about where my stuff comes from, where it goes to, who makes it, and what effect my desire for things has on the world. I've been hyperaware all evening about my discards, knowing that someone will have to sort out the used tissues from the small ice cream container from the wooden spoon that was packed inside of it.
Swapping shoes at various thresholds, from outside shoes to slippers indoors, to socks on tatami, to special slippers for the bathroom, is making me very aware of changes in place as well as the purpose of the space - akin to my experience last winter when all the alarms went off in the dark chapel at the Jesuit Center.
We visited a shrine on top of the mountain (I forgot my pilgrimage book, alas, though did collect the seal on a sheet of paper), and walked nearly up to the old caves which are still used for a walking meditation. We're at 550 meters here, and between the jet lag, the slight bit of altitude, and a long walk this morning lugging my 25 pounds of stuff (yet another way to be aware of the weight of what you have, carry it around for a few hours), I was tired. There are 88 little shrines on the site, to allow you to walk the 88 shrine pilgrimage without have to travel, I made it to within 4 shrines of the top before surrendering to exhaustion. The views from the trail were spectacular, I wish my pictures did them justice, but the light was not great.
We visited a waterfall long used as a religious site, Dragon God. The rain from the typhoon means that there was a lot of water, folding like silk as it fell.
A lovely dinner at friends of Hank's closed off the day. No wireless here so this will get posted from somewhere else on the road. No photos until I get better internet!
Seeing from the bus how tightly Osaka and Kobe are confined by the mountains, pushed up against the sea, I begin to understand why every possible inch is cultivated, why there are rice paddies in Kyoto city, and why the impossibly steep hills around Kamikatsu were terraced with fields.
It was a long travel day, we left the hotel in Osaka at about eight and didn't arrive in Kamikatsu until about 3 this afternoon. We took the express bus from Osaka to Tokushima, then two local buses which labored to carry us up into the mountains. We saw the permanent whirlpool in the Naruta Straits which connect the Pacific to the Inland Sea - very cool to see from the bridge, undoubtedly frightening if you were in a boat.
Kamikatsu is a zero waste village of about 2000 people in the mountains of Tokushima prefecture. Food waste is composted, everything else goes into 34 different recycling streams. I do mean everything else, from disposable diapers to cooking oil to the caps on bottles (separate from the bottles themselves). And the materials must be washed. There is no garbage or recycling collection, you have to deal with your own garbage, bringing it to the zero waste facility and sorting it.
We visited the facility, and wandering around looking at the waste prompted a return to some of my contemplations of the First Week of the Spiritual Exercises. Seeing all the ways in which the discards of living had to be painstakingly sorted, washed, taken apart was a potent reminder of how infrequently I think about where my stuff comes from, where it goes to, who makes it, and what effect my desire for things has on the world. I've been hyperaware all evening about my discards, knowing that someone will have to sort out the used tissues from the small ice cream container from the wooden spoon that was packed inside of it.
Swapping shoes at various thresholds, from outside shoes to slippers indoors, to socks on tatami, to special slippers for the bathroom, is making me very aware of changes in place as well as the purpose of the space - akin to my experience last winter when all the alarms went off in the dark chapel at the Jesuit Center.
We visited a shrine on top of the mountain (I forgot my pilgrimage book, alas, though did collect the seal on a sheet of paper), and walked nearly up to the old caves which are still used for a walking meditation. We're at 550 meters here, and between the jet lag, the slight bit of altitude, and a long walk this morning lugging my 25 pounds of stuff (yet another way to be aware of the weight of what you have, carry it around for a few hours), I was tired. There are 88 little shrines on the site, to allow you to walk the 88 shrine pilgrimage without have to travel, I made it to within 4 shrines of the top before surrendering to exhaustion. The views from the trail were spectacular, I wish my pictures did them justice, but the light was not great.
We visited a waterfall long used as a religious site, Dragon God. The rain from the typhoon means that there was a lot of water, folding like silk as it fell.
A lovely dinner at friends of Hank's closed off the day. No wireless here so this will get posted from somewhere else on the road. No photos until I get better internet!
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Pilgrims
Sunday 29 May Koyo-san
Another early start to the day, getting out of bed when the gong was sounded around 5:50. It continues to pour rain. First stop today was the first temple founded on Koyosan, Kongobu-ji. The temple has a beautiful set of wall screens, including a set showing the life of Kaiku (the founder of Koyosan). There is an enormous stone garden, partially flooded by all the rain. (A typhoon is just south of us, skirting the coast of Japan - and foiling our plans to head to Tokushima by ferry today.) The patterns made by the raindrops on the puddles on top of the patterns of the stone are gorgeous. On the doors of the temple were large scrolls with prayers for the victims of the earthquake and tsunami.
I bought a pilgrim's jacket and book at Kongobu-ji, and had them stamp my coat with the monastery's seal. It's neatly centered at the top.
I now reliably recognize about a dozen kanji, including entrance and exit, big and small. But the depth of my illiteracy was pointed up today when we stopped at the "eastern office" (a euphemism for the bathroom) at Kongobu-ji. I don't know the kanji for men and women and no helpful icons on the doors. My colleague (equally clueless when it comes to kanji) pointed at one door and firmly asserted, "This is the men's room." I was impressed until he pointed out that the doors were a bit ajar and a quick peek revealed which was which. Nothing could help me figure out which of the four buttons in the stall was "flush" -- as I tell my students, guess and check is as good a method as any when you are stuck.
Each of the temples on the pilgrim routes offers tea, sometimes made over the fireplaces that have been used for hundreds of years from water pulled from the rain water cistern, other times in electric kettles. Here we sat on tatami in a large room and were served hot tea and lovely little rice cookies that melted in your mouth, sweet with a touch of almond and a sigil imprinted on the front. I found a box in the gift shop and have been lugging it around since.
Lunch was udon noodles to slurp with a tempura mix floating on top, and a quick lesson in how to slurp without getting the broth on your glasses, or worse yet, the shirts of your dining companions. By now it was truly a deluge outside.
We walked on to the Reihokan museum, where some of the treasures of Koyosan are on display. There were some amazing carved wooden statues of various deities and historical figures, and I could imagine what these might look in their full glory, painted, gold leaf and places in a dark temple enclosure lit by flickering lights and candles. Some of them were pretty terrifying. I enjoyed several of the exhibits of materials related to the founding of the museum and its original quarters. Every day items such as old ladders, battered wooden dustpans and pressed tile rafter ends were preserved.
As befit pilgrims, we then walked up to the women's hall. Until the early 20th century, women were not permitted within the enclosure at Koyosan, and would come to these small shelters just outside the precincts. There is a long trail that connects the sites of seven of these shelters, this is the only remaining shelter. The space is still active as a temple, there is a prayer post there for the comfort women of WW II, for example. The monk there was happy to stamp my coat, and to be the first to stamp my book. The stamp of the shrine is in red ink, on top of which he put an elegant calligraphic phrase. As a final service, he wrote a title on my pilgrimage book, then picked up a little blue plastic blowdryer and made sure it was completely dry before handing it back to me, despite the fact that the taxi he'd called for us was waiting (he kindly explained to the taxi driver who had come to roust me out from the shrine).
Now we are on the train to Osaka, where we will spend the night, then go on to Tokushima in the morning (the typhoon should be well past by then).
Another early start to the day, getting out of bed when the gong was sounded around 5:50. It continues to pour rain. First stop today was the first temple founded on Koyosan, Kongobu-ji. The temple has a beautiful set of wall screens, including a set showing the life of Kaiku (the founder of Koyosan). There is an enormous stone garden, partially flooded by all the rain. (A typhoon is just south of us, skirting the coast of Japan - and foiling our plans to head to Tokushima by ferry today.) The patterns made by the raindrops on the puddles on top of the patterns of the stone are gorgeous. On the doors of the temple were large scrolls with prayers for the victims of the earthquake and tsunami.I bought a pilgrim's jacket and book at Kongobu-ji, and had them stamp my coat with the monastery's seal. It's neatly centered at the top.
I now reliably recognize about a dozen kanji, including entrance and exit, big and small. But the depth of my illiteracy was pointed up today when we stopped at the "eastern office" (a euphemism for the bathroom) at Kongobu-ji. I don't know the kanji for men and women and no helpful icons on the doors. My colleague (equally clueless when it comes to kanji) pointed at one door and firmly asserted, "This is the men's room." I was impressed until he pointed out that the doors were a bit ajar and a quick peek revealed which was which. Nothing could help me figure out which of the four buttons in the stall was "flush" -- as I tell my students, guess and check is as good a method as any when you are stuck.
Each of the temples on the pilgrim routes offers tea, sometimes made over the fireplaces that have been used for hundreds of years from water pulled from the rain water cistern, other times in electric kettles. Here we sat on tatami in a large room and were served hot tea and lovely little rice cookies that melted in your mouth, sweet with a touch of almond and a sigil imprinted on the front. I found a box in the gift shop and have been lugging it around since.Lunch was udon noodles to slurp with a tempura mix floating on top, and a quick lesson in how to slurp without getting the broth on your glasses, or worse yet, the shirts of your dining companions. By now it was truly a deluge outside.
We walked on to the Reihokan museum, where some of the treasures of Koyosan are on display. There were some amazing carved wooden statues of various deities and historical figures, and I could imagine what these might look in their full glory, painted, gold leaf and places in a dark temple enclosure lit by flickering lights and candles. Some of them were pretty terrifying. I enjoyed several of the exhibits of materials related to the founding of the museum and its original quarters. Every day items such as old ladders, battered wooden dustpans and pressed tile rafter ends were preserved.
As befit pilgrims, we then walked up to the women's hall. Until the early 20th century, women were not permitted within the enclosure at Koyosan, and would come to these small shelters just outside the precincts. There is a long trail that connects the sites of seven of these shelters, this is the only remaining shelter. The space is still active as a temple, there is a prayer post there for the comfort women of WW II, for example. The monk there was happy to stamp my coat, and to be the first to stamp my book. The stamp of the shrine is in red ink, on top of which he put an elegant calligraphic phrase. As a final service, he wrote a title on my pilgrimage book, then picked up a little blue plastic blowdryer and made sure it was completely dry before handing it back to me, despite the fact that the taxi he'd called for us was waiting (he kindly explained to the taxi driver who had come to roust me out from the shrine).Now we are on the train to Osaka, where we will spend the night, then go on to Tokushima in the morning (the typhoon should be well past by then).
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Mount Koyo-san
We were up at 5:45 for morning prayers here. Two priests chanted sutras while we sat. The floor was warm. Each time one of the priests struck the bell, the black silk sleeve of his robes folded onto the floor, flowing like ink off a brush, looking like a kanji character.
It's been raining all day, softly earlier, now pouring. We walked up to the place where Kobo Daishi, the Buddhist saint who founded this monastic complex in the 13th century, is interred. The legend is that he is still alive, in eternal meditation. Two hundred thousand graves are in the complex, people want to be buried here so that they can ascend with Kobo Daishi. To see so many graves, so many ancient graves in particular, is astounding.
The temple is still very active, funerals are still being held, we saw at least three today. I was moved to see a young man climbing up to the shrine, solemnly carrying a silver wrapped urn full of ashes in a white sling.
We went into the temple where saffron robed priests are praying for the dead and living. The entire complex is shrouded in incense. There are hundreds of lanterns lighting the inside. A crypt underneath houses thousands upon thousands of little Jizu statues, each with the name of the deceased underneath.
We walked back to town for lunch, then met a young Buddhist priest named Hideo for some conversation about meditation. We walked back up to the shrine. A monk friend of Hideo's gave us a pinch of a spicy powder to anoint our hands with before we entered the temple, then offered us incense to burn while we meditated, and a home safety protection charm. We sat and meditated, in what felt like the middle of the market place, coins ringing as people threw them into the huge offering bin, chanting families, people pacing back and forth (walking 100 lengths of the veranda, praying). Pilgrim in peaked hats and white jackets, carrying staffs or bags of white with a small bell on them, stream past.
We had tea, make over a fire kindled from coals kept alight for a thousand years. The same fire that is used to light the candles in the shrine at the top of the hill.
The bath tonight was heavenly. I poured water over my head, like a baptism. I don't remember my own, but this was sacramental. Soaking in the pure clear water, likewise.
I am totally toast at this point, it's only 7:30, but I'm ready for a night's sleep!
It's been raining all day, softly earlier, now pouring. We walked up to the place where Kobo Daishi, the Buddhist saint who founded this monastic complex in the 13th century, is interred. The legend is that he is still alive, in eternal meditation. Two hundred thousand graves are in the complex, people want to be buried here so that they can ascend with Kobo Daishi. To see so many graves, so many ancient graves in particular, is astounding.
The temple is still very active, funerals are still being held, we saw at least three today. I was moved to see a young man climbing up to the shrine, solemnly carrying a silver wrapped urn full of ashes in a white sling.
We went into the temple where saffron robed priests are praying for the dead and living. The entire complex is shrouded in incense. There are hundreds of lanterns lighting the inside. A crypt underneath houses thousands upon thousands of little Jizu statues, each with the name of the deceased underneath.
We walked back to town for lunch, then met a young Buddhist priest named Hideo for some conversation about meditation. We walked back up to the shrine. A monk friend of Hideo's gave us a pinch of a spicy powder to anoint our hands with before we entered the temple, then offered us incense to burn while we meditated, and a home safety protection charm. We sat and meditated, in what felt like the middle of the market place, coins ringing as people threw them into the huge offering bin, chanting families, people pacing back and forth (walking 100 lengths of the veranda, praying). Pilgrim in peaked hats and white jackets, carrying staffs or bags of white with a small bell on them, stream past.
We had tea, make over a fire kindled from coals kept alight for a thousand years. The same fire that is used to light the candles in the shrine at the top of the hill.
The bath tonight was heavenly. I poured water over my head, like a baptism. I don't remember my own, but this was sacramental. Soaking in the pure clear water, likewise.
I am totally toast at this point, it's only 7:30, but I'm ready for a night's sleep!
Friday, May 27, 2011
Set in stone
Friday May 27 Kyoto (then on to Koyo san via Osaka)
We were out early again this morning, to see Daitoku-in, a complex of independent Zen monasteries. Arriving well before official opening time, we were nevertheless able to walk into the complex. It's a virtual sea of peaked roofs, some of the monasteries here date to the 14th and 15th centuries.
Our first stop was a famous stone garden, this one representing waves battering islands, which remain unmoved. It made me think of the spiritual, "No storm can shake my inmost calm, when to the Lord I'm clinging..." The wave look high, battering the land but the rock islands are unmoved.
The abbot appeared as we came in and sat with us on the steps of the garden, having an animated conversation with Hank, which he translated for Marc and I. Advice for us: The breath matters, sit up straight so that the oxygen can really get in. That and good breathing makes you beautiful.
I found the garden both more striking than the iconic garden at Ryoanji we saw yesterday, that least quiet of Zen gardens, and more still. Perhaps it's the contrast between the flash frozen stones and the soft moss in which the stones are set that enhances the sense of stillness.
We looked at another old tea house. Outside this one were three stones perched on another, tied with ropes. The stones are placed on the stepping stones leading up to the tea house entrance when it is occupied, to discretely signal that the tea house is in use and other visitors should stay away. Maybe I need a set for my office?
We saw several other stone gardens of various sorts, perhaps the most Zen of them all is this one, set into the floor of the cloister, rather than outside the abbot's quarters as most of the rest were placed. It was hard to photograph, and hard to imagine where you might sit to meditate in front of it. but I liked it very much. All these cloister spaces were still and silent, no hordes of teenagers trooping through. Despite their stony nature, these small enclosed landscapes seemed aglow with life.
For the next two nights we are staying at a monastery on Mount Koya, arrived at by train, then cable car. It reminds me very much of Wernersville in many ways, though less silent. We had to sign in by 5 pm, gates close by around 8. Our room has a lovely view out onto the monastery garden. I'm on the third floor (where I often stay at Wernersville). There are reminder of meal times in your rooms and not to leave your valuables in your rooms, since these do not lock. These rooms do have a TV (!) and wi-fi (!!). And there are Japanese style baths.
I sat on the veranda outside our room for my Examen and evening meditation. The air was cool, it felt like water on my face, the rain fell on the pond below, and the sound of the cistern overflowing was like a litany. Showers and dew, bless the Lord!
We were out early again this morning, to see Daitoku-in, a complex of independent Zen monasteries. Arriving well before official opening time, we were nevertheless able to walk into the complex. It's a virtual sea of peaked roofs, some of the monasteries here date to the 14th and 15th centuries.
Our first stop was a famous stone garden, this one representing waves battering islands, which remain unmoved. It made me think of the spiritual, "No storm can shake my inmost calm, when to the Lord I'm clinging..." The wave look high, battering the land but the rock islands are unmoved.
The abbot appeared as we came in and sat with us on the steps of the garden, having an animated conversation with Hank, which he translated for Marc and I. Advice for us: The breath matters, sit up straight so that the oxygen can really get in. That and good breathing makes you beautiful. I found the garden both more striking than the iconic garden at Ryoanji we saw yesterday, that least quiet of Zen gardens, and more still. Perhaps it's the contrast between the flash frozen stones and the soft moss in which the stones are set that enhances the sense of stillness.
We looked at another old tea house. Outside this one were three stones perched on another, tied with ropes. The stones are placed on the stepping stones leading up to the tea house entrance when it is occupied, to discretely signal that the tea house is in use and other visitors should stay away. Maybe I need a set for my office?
We saw several other stone gardens of various sorts, perhaps the most Zen of them all is this one, set into the floor of the cloister, rather than outside the abbot's quarters as most of the rest were placed. It was hard to photograph, and hard to imagine where you might sit to meditate in front of it. but I liked it very much. All these cloister spaces were still and silent, no hordes of teenagers trooping through. Despite their stony nature, these small enclosed landscapes seemed aglow with life.
For the next two nights we are staying at a monastery on Mount Koya, arrived at by train, then cable car. It reminds me very much of Wernersville in many ways, though less silent. We had to sign in by 5 pm, gates close by around 8. Our room has a lovely view out onto the monastery garden. I'm on the third floor (where I often stay at Wernersville). There are reminder of meal times in your rooms and not to leave your valuables in your rooms, since these do not lock. These rooms do have a TV (!) and wi-fi (!!). And there are Japanese style baths.
I sat on the veranda outside our room for my Examen and evening meditation. The air was cool, it felt like water on my face, the rain fell on the pond below, and the sound of the cistern overflowing was like a litany. Showers and dew, bless the Lord!
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Column: I believe in the Holy Spirit
This column appeared in the Catholic Standard & Times 12 May 2011.
In the same way, the Spirit too comes to the aid of our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but the Spirit itself intercedes with inexpressible groanings. — Romans 8:26
I believe in the Holy Spirit. This is not an assertion I make by rote on Sundays. Neither is my belief a theological abstraction. Like St. Paul, I have seen the Spirit, who prays in us when we do not know how, at work, up close and in my household.
When Chris was four years old, his preschool class made construction paper rainbows with pots of gold at the end. On the cloud atop each child’s rainbow, the teacher had written their answer to the question, “What would you do if you found a pot of gold?” What do preschoolers long for? Some children dreamed of candy, others of new toys, or perhaps a new video. All but one desired something for themselves.
Then there was my son, who had replied, “Feed all the hungry children in the world.” I tell you, I believe in the Holy Spirit.
What made Chris say such a thing? I’m certain that he, like his peers, longed for an unlimited supply of gummi bears. He may still. Yet in that moment he gave voice not to his own desires, but to others’ needs. In his tiny but powerful book on the Psalms, theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer suggests that if we are to pray well, we ought to pray at times contrary to our own desires. “Not what we want to pray is important, but what God wants us to pray.”
How do we discover what God wants us to pray? In a fourth century homily on St. Paul’s letter to the Romans, St. John Chrysostom tells of early Christian communities where one person would take this role and would “stand with great attention … asking the things which were profitable for all.”
I, at least, often find it hard to have the attention necessary to see beyond the needs in my immediate vicinity. My own needs, those of my family and my community. My human vision — and imagination — are by their nature limited. Speaking from the fourth century, Church father Origen has words of solace and hope for me: “Whenever the Holy Spirit sees us struggling, he stretches out his hand to help us in our weakness. It is a reminder to let God work in my prayer.”
For even our prayer is not our possession. As we hear in the words of a weekday Preface to the Eucharistic Prayer, “our desire to thank you is itself your gift.” Prayer is active — not just on our part, but on God’s. Prayer seeks to raise us out of ourselves, orienting us not only to God, but to our neighbor.
We stand, we stop, we listen, the Holy Spirit pours forth, and then, perhaps then we may give voice to what God wants us to pray. I still have Chris’ rainbow, tucked safely away in a drawer with other precious relics, just in case my faith falters. For I believe in the Holy Spirit.
Light immortal, Light divine,
Visit thou these hearts of thine,
And our inmost being fill.
If thou take thy grace away,
Nothing pure in us will stay;
All our good is turned to ill.
— From Veni Spiritus Sanctus
In the same way, the Spirit too comes to the aid of our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but the Spirit itself intercedes with inexpressible groanings. — Romans 8:26
I believe in the Holy Spirit. This is not an assertion I make by rote on Sundays. Neither is my belief a theological abstraction. Like St. Paul, I have seen the Spirit, who prays in us when we do not know how, at work, up close and in my household.
When Chris was four years old, his preschool class made construction paper rainbows with pots of gold at the end. On the cloud atop each child’s rainbow, the teacher had written their answer to the question, “What would you do if you found a pot of gold?” What do preschoolers long for? Some children dreamed of candy, others of new toys, or perhaps a new video. All but one desired something for themselves.
Then there was my son, who had replied, “Feed all the hungry children in the world.” I tell you, I believe in the Holy Spirit.
What made Chris say such a thing? I’m certain that he, like his peers, longed for an unlimited supply of gummi bears. He may still. Yet in that moment he gave voice not to his own desires, but to others’ needs. In his tiny but powerful book on the Psalms, theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer suggests that if we are to pray well, we ought to pray at times contrary to our own desires. “Not what we want to pray is important, but what God wants us to pray.”
How do we discover what God wants us to pray? In a fourth century homily on St. Paul’s letter to the Romans, St. John Chrysostom tells of early Christian communities where one person would take this role and would “stand with great attention … asking the things which were profitable for all.”
I, at least, often find it hard to have the attention necessary to see beyond the needs in my immediate vicinity. My own needs, those of my family and my community. My human vision — and imagination — are by their nature limited. Speaking from the fourth century, Church father Origen has words of solace and hope for me: “Whenever the Holy Spirit sees us struggling, he stretches out his hand to help us in our weakness. It is a reminder to let God work in my prayer.”
For even our prayer is not our possession. As we hear in the words of a weekday Preface to the Eucharistic Prayer, “our desire to thank you is itself your gift.” Prayer is active — not just on our part, but on God’s. Prayer seeks to raise us out of ourselves, orienting us not only to God, but to our neighbor.
We stand, we stop, we listen, the Holy Spirit pours forth, and then, perhaps then we may give voice to what God wants us to pray. I still have Chris’ rainbow, tucked safely away in a drawer with other precious relics, just in case my faith falters. For I believe in the Holy Spirit.
Light immortal, Light divine,
Visit thou these hearts of thine,
And our inmost being fill.
If thou take thy grace away,
Nothing pure in us will stay;
All our good is turned to ill.
— From Veni Spiritus Sanctus
When Zen is Zen
Hank had written to the Saihoji temple in west Kyoto, which is more often called the Moss Temple because of its extraordinary moss gardens. The only way to get in is to request entrance ahead of time, in writing. Hank had also asked that we be allowed to see a very old tea ceremony house on the grounds (built about 400 years ago by the first disciple of the man who created the tea ceremony) for scholarly purposes. You show your letter to the man at the gate to get in, and then are offered a thin piece of paper with a sutra likely inked in (in kanji!) and shown to a room full of writing desks on the floor. For about an hour, you listen while the sutra is chanted, and copy it out with a brush and ink, then you add what you want to pray for and leave it to be burned. Then you can walk through the gardens.
The garden are amazing, softly rolling, carpeted in moss, with occasional touches of color, as in the iris on one of the small islands in the center of the pond. Because of the limits on visitors, this is a very quiet spot (except for the cell phone ringing behind me during the sutra chanting - a truly universal experience, if there is liturgy going on, there is a cell phone going off!)
The tea house was beautiful and rustic. We could only go out onto the veranda one at a time, since the boards are original and they won't support too much weight. I was kindly allowed to take photos, so we can show the students the interior in the fall, since we will not be able to bring them inside.
From there we went to our fourth temple of the day. (Yes, I know this is not sounding all that contemplative, but we're getting there.) This is another 14th century space, Jizo-In, a Zen temple sacred to the deity of children. It is surrounded by stands of enormous bamboo. There was only one other visitor there and we walked up to the abbot's quarters and sat there quietly, contemplating his garden. It was so quiet I could hear the bamboo canes (which were thirty or forty feet tall at least) clattering in the wind. It was a space soaked in stillness, more than six centuries worth, and like many other still places, draws you into that quiet. I could have sat there all night, but alas, up the hill came the elderly, nigh on ancient, caretaker to kindly turn us back out into the world
The garden are amazing, softly rolling, carpeted in moss, with occasional touches of color, as in the iris on one of the small islands in the center of the pond. Because of the limits on visitors, this is a very quiet spot (except for the cell phone ringing behind me during the sutra chanting - a truly universal experience, if there is liturgy going on, there is a cell phone going off!)
The tea house was beautiful and rustic. We could only go out onto the veranda one at a time, since the boards are original and they won't support too much weight. I was kindly allowed to take photos, so we can show the students the interior in the fall, since we will not be able to bring them inside.
From there we went to our fourth temple of the day. (Yes, I know this is not sounding all that contemplative, but we're getting there.) This is another 14th century space, Jizo-In, a Zen temple sacred to the deity of children. It is surrounded by stands of enormous bamboo. There was only one other visitor there and we walked up to the abbot's quarters and sat there quietly, contemplating his garden. It was so quiet I could hear the bamboo canes (which were thirty or forty feet tall at least) clattering in the wind. It was a space soaked in stillness, more than six centuries worth, and like many other still places, draws you into that quiet. I could have sat there all night, but alas, up the hill came the elderly, nigh on ancient, caretaker to kindly turn us back out into the world
When is Zen not quiet
We arrived in Kyoto in the late evening, to stay in a small inn, again with traditional rooms (but Western toilets!). We had dinner at a small space down the street that served various sorts of Japanese savory pancakes. Batter mixed with vegetables, then filled, and cooked on a griddle. I had negi-yaki, a green onion based, quite thin pancake. Few of the places we have eaten have been non-smoking, and I'd forgotten how quickly you can ignore the smell of cigarette smoke when it is ubiquitous.
Breakfast was a quick "thick toast" with marmalade in the hallway of the inn, where I could admire the old fashioned salmon pink pay phone. We got an early start this morning to see Ryoanji temple, which is famous for its Zen rock garden. The grounds are gorgeous, but because it is a stop on the standard school tour (think Independence Hall in Philadelphia), it is generally overun with kids in school uniforms and their tour guides. We got there when there were only two busses in the parking lot, by the time we left, the lot was full.
The garden was created behind the abbot's quarters by Tokuho Zenketsu in about 1500. The garden is empty, except for 15 rocks (of which you can see only 14 at any one time), and was created (perhaps) for night time meditation. I can imagine it would be gorgeous in the moonlight. It's surrounded by low walls, with a lone cherry tree dropping its branches over the side. One side of the abbot's quarters is an open veranda, which is where you sit. For all that is a icon of Zen, of stillness and contemplation, the place is anything but still and quiet. 
As you can see, there are lots of people looking at the garden, tour guides chattering, and recorded announcement playing (in Japanese) which, I'm told, tells how quiet this space is. Still, sitting there, tuning out the chatter, I could get some sense of what it might be like in the middle of the night to sit in this space. I suspect it would be a very still spot.
From there, we went to Rokuon-ji temple, which was, if possible, even more frenetic than Ryoanji, if you can imagine. Packed with school tours, signs everywhere forbidding group pictures (a prescription which seemed to be ignored, but you could see the logic of, as it clogged up the viewing area). Rokuon-ji's grounds are open and lovely, but the pavilion at the edge of the lake is the draw, the top two floors are covered in gold leaf. It is spectacular. But not quiet.
Breakfast was a quick "thick toast" with marmalade in the hallway of the inn, where I could admire the old fashioned salmon pink pay phone. We got an early start this morning to see Ryoanji temple, which is famous for its Zen rock garden. The grounds are gorgeous, but because it is a stop on the standard school tour (think Independence Hall in Philadelphia), it is generally overun with kids in school uniforms and their tour guides. We got there when there were only two busses in the parking lot, by the time we left, the lot was full.
The garden was created behind the abbot's quarters by Tokuho Zenketsu in about 1500. The garden is empty, except for 15 rocks (of which you can see only 14 at any one time), and was created (perhaps) for night time meditation. I can imagine it would be gorgeous in the moonlight. It's surrounded by low walls, with a lone cherry tree dropping its branches over the side. One side of the abbot's quarters is an open veranda, which is where you sit. For all that is a icon of Zen, of stillness and contemplation, the place is anything but still and quiet. 
As you can see, there are lots of people looking at the garden, tour guides chattering, and recorded announcement playing (in Japanese) which, I'm told, tells how quiet this space is. Still, sitting there, tuning out the chatter, I could get some sense of what it might be like in the middle of the night to sit in this space. I suspect it would be a very still spot.
From there, we went to Rokuon-ji temple, which was, if possible, even more frenetic than Ryoanji, if you can imagine. Packed with school tours, signs everywhere forbidding group pictures (a prescription which seemed to be ignored, but you could see the logic of, as it clogged up the viewing area). Rokuon-ji's grounds are open and lovely, but the pavilion at the edge of the lake is the draw, the top two floors are covered in gold leaf. It is spectacular. But not quiet.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Spaces of light in Tokyo
A traditional Japanese breakfast looks like lunch. There was rice, a small iron pot of broth and tofu set atop a flame, whole salt cured fish the size of the palm of my hand, pickled plums, square egg omelets and miso soup. And a terrific cup of green tea, very hot.
Well fortified, we headed out to see the Tokyo Church of Christ, which is near the Harajuku neighborhood. The church was designed by Fumihiko Maki, within constraints imposed by the neighbors, including that it could not cast a shadow over the smaller houses nearby. It's a fascinating space, wide - almost squat, when seen from the pulpit. From the congregational side it soars up like wings.
Getting to Harajuku was an adventure in itself. We got on the train at the station near our hotel, switching to a second line at Mita (at last, kanji I could read, I could recognize the sign for "three" and learned the sign for "fields", see the photo of the tiles set into the station floor -- these may not be here yet, I'm posting photos by mail!). We reached a station, and stopped, and waited, and waited. The announcements were all in Japanese, but I didn't need a translation to know that there was trouble on the tracks. They all had the same tone as a SEPTA "there's been a delay." The only difference is that Japanese rail apologizes profusely for the trouble.
The delay grew, so we bailed on the train and took the subway. An hour, three subway lines (including a stop in the station where the sarin attack took place) and a taxi ride later we were at the church, the only thing lost in all the shuffling was my hat. Our patience was intact.
From the church we walked through the Harajuku neighborhood, down Takshita Street, which is a funky collections of shops targeting teens. Think a cross between the mall and the Wildwood boardwalk. Higher end shops and trinkets all jumbled together. We replaced my hat at Muji - the famously brand less Japanese brand. My kids will find it suitably appalling, but it meets my requirements: packable and will keep the sun from crisping my nose and neck.
Lunch was at an omurisu place, thin egg omelets wrapped around rice with various fillings. Ice tea with gum syrup (simple syrup?) in little containers of the same ilk as the cream containers at home.
We looked at the Russian Orthodox Holy Resurrection cathedral as well, a pre-war building (rare in Tokyo after the fire bombings of WW II) It's a small space, not much larger than Our Mother of Good Counsel inside, but elaborately decorated. Yesterday, we got incense to burn at the temple, today we each got a candle to place in front of one of the icons. You couldn't go into the sanctuary, and we didn't know that they celebrated the liturgy of the hours at 7:30 and 5 each day, to which we certainly would have gone. (Though apparently it is in Japanese.)
And I have met and, if not quite conquered, at least coped contemplatively/competently with, the Japanese squat toilet. We walked back to the train station through Yoyogi park, where Meiji shrine is located. There we stopped to use the facilities. Things to remember: be sure to have your own toilet tissue where you can find it quickly in your purse, and a towel to dry your hands with - neither are supplied. Try not to laugh. Though I will admit that when I finally emerged to meet my two (male) colleagues outside, I totally cracked up.
And as long as we are on the topic of toilets, the one at the hotel this afternoon greeted me, (at least I presume it was a cheerful greeting - given the state of my Japanese there is no way to be sure), then started playing the sounds of a babbling brook. Again, try not to laugh.
Now we are on the shinkasen - the bullet train, headed from Tokyo to Kyoto. We could catch glimpses of Mt. Fuji - enormous and its top shrouded in clouds. When the bullet train stops at Tokyo, an army of pink uniformed ladies swarms the train. They switch the seats to face the direction of travel, dust the seats, replace the head cloths. As we came up the stairs to the tracks, I was startled to see a tiny door (1/2 the usual size) open up in the wall on the stairway and out pour these pink-clad women.
And why are there blue roofs?
Well fortified, we headed out to see the Tokyo Church of Christ, which is near the Harajuku neighborhood. The church was designed by Fumihiko Maki, within constraints imposed by the neighbors, including that it could not cast a shadow over the smaller houses nearby. It's a fascinating space, wide - almost squat, when seen from the pulpit. From the congregational side it soars up like wings.
Getting to Harajuku was an adventure in itself. We got on the train at the station near our hotel, switching to a second line at Mita (at last, kanji I could read, I could recognize the sign for "three" and learned the sign for "fields", see the photo of the tiles set into the station floor -- these may not be here yet, I'm posting photos by mail!). We reached a station, and stopped, and waited, and waited. The announcements were all in Japanese, but I didn't need a translation to know that there was trouble on the tracks. They all had the same tone as a SEPTA "there's been a delay." The only difference is that Japanese rail apologizes profusely for the trouble.
The delay grew, so we bailed on the train and took the subway. An hour, three subway lines (including a stop in the station where the sarin attack took place) and a taxi ride later we were at the church, the only thing lost in all the shuffling was my hat. Our patience was intact.
From the church we walked through the Harajuku neighborhood, down Takshita Street, which is a funky collections of shops targeting teens. Think a cross between the mall and the Wildwood boardwalk. Higher end shops and trinkets all jumbled together. We replaced my hat at Muji - the famously brand less Japanese brand. My kids will find it suitably appalling, but it meets my requirements: packable and will keep the sun from crisping my nose and neck.
Lunch was at an omurisu place, thin egg omelets wrapped around rice with various fillings. Ice tea with gum syrup (simple syrup?) in little containers of the same ilk as the cream containers at home.
We looked at the Russian Orthodox Holy Resurrection cathedral as well, a pre-war building (rare in Tokyo after the fire bombings of WW II) It's a small space, not much larger than Our Mother of Good Counsel inside, but elaborately decorated. Yesterday, we got incense to burn at the temple, today we each got a candle to place in front of one of the icons. You couldn't go into the sanctuary, and we didn't know that they celebrated the liturgy of the hours at 7:30 and 5 each day, to which we certainly would have gone. (Though apparently it is in Japanese.)
And I have met and, if not quite conquered, at least coped contemplatively/competently with, the Japanese squat toilet. We walked back to the train station through Yoyogi park, where Meiji shrine is located. There we stopped to use the facilities. Things to remember: be sure to have your own toilet tissue where you can find it quickly in your purse, and a towel to dry your hands with - neither are supplied. Try not to laugh. Though I will admit that when I finally emerged to meet my two (male) colleagues outside, I totally cracked up.
And as long as we are on the topic of toilets, the one at the hotel this afternoon greeted me, (at least I presume it was a cheerful greeting - given the state of my Japanese there is no way to be sure), then started playing the sounds of a babbling brook. Again, try not to laugh.
Now we are on the shinkasen - the bullet train, headed from Tokyo to Kyoto. We could catch glimpses of Mt. Fuji - enormous and its top shrouded in clouds. When the bullet train stops at Tokyo, an army of pink uniformed ladies swarms the train. They switch the seats to face the direction of travel, dust the seats, replace the head cloths. As we came up the stairs to the tracks, I was startled to see a tiny door (1/2 the usual size) open up in the wall on the stairway and out pour these pink-clad women.
And why are there blue roofs?
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Togenuki Jizu
I am functionally illiterate. The only kanji I can recognize reliably are the numbers, and those are generally given in their Arabic form - so a rather useless piece of knowledge at the moment. Once we were out of the airport, roma-ji and English essentially vanished. It's frustrating, to say the least. I'm reduced to pointing at things on the menu and saying, that looks good.
My room is a traditional Japanese space. A futon on the floor, tatami mats, shoji screens. And slippers at the door. And slippers for the postage stamp sized bathroom. In many ways it is reminiscent of the rooms I've stayed in in various retreat houses. Small, simple, but offering a welcome. The thermos of hot water set on the low table, with a pot and cup to make tea, and a small snack (though since I'm functionally illiterate at the moment, I have absolutely no idea what is in the little orange and brown paper packet).
We went to Togenuki-Jizu last night, a temple in Tokyo that draws people seeking healing. The story goes that a maid, working on repairing children's clothes, accidentally swallowed the needle. They took her to the temple, where the priest wadded up a piece of paper with an image of Jizu on it for the maid to swallow. She swallowed, then vomited back up the paper, with the needle through the image. You still get slips of paper at the temple to swallow, as you might bathe in water from Lourdes. You can see our packet of them in the photo. Shades of St. Blaise.
The temple is in a neighborhood, with lots of little shops that appeal to women of certain age (it's sometimes called the grandmother zone). You cross into the percents, to find a Chouzuya, a place to wash. The stone basin here was sheltered under a small pagoda, with elegantly simple brass ladles. You scoop up some water with the ladle and wash your right hand, then your left, then pour a bit of water in your right hand, rinse your mouth and spit (discretely) onto the ground. The sheer abundance of the water is beautiful. It is reminiscent of the holy water fonts in Catholic churches (though most of those seem parsimonious compared to this flowing water, so rich visually and aurally), and of the places to wash your feet before entering a mosque.
There are several large urns in which to burn incense, you can buy a bundle and drop it in. People would walk up and waft the smoke over themselves, breathing it in, swirling it around their heads.
tatami mats
My hotel room for the night. Tatami mats, cushions on the floor, shojis to close off entry and lovely alcove -- and no bed, just a futon. A fascinating trip to a temple in Toyko this evening that I am way too tired to write about tonight. I took good notes and photos and will write a bit about it on the train to Kyoto tomorrow afternoon.
Testing mindfullness
How mindful are we upon departure? The pick-ups go pretty flawlessly and all is well until we are just about to get on the highway, when our driver pulls over and says he needs to restart the computer, in the hopes of getting a warning to stop beeping. Now the car won't start. We try for a few minutes, then I call Victor, who gets up and comes to get us. At literally a moment's notice he will get out of bed and drive a three hour round trip. This is love.
I look out the window as we are about to push back from the gate. There is a guy in a blue polo and khakis out there with what looks like a phaser in his hand. He's striding toward the front of the plane. I flash back to scenes from the early Star Treks, Kirk, Spock and McCoy on an old Earth, trying some scam to get back to the Enterprise and their own time. He's got on earphones, do they cover Vulcan ears? I listen for the whine of the phaser, hoping it's set on stun. I suspect what he's holding is actually a bar code reader. Do they need to check the plane out of the airport, like a book? It seems incongruous to think that something as large as 777 could have a tiny bar code on it's nose to read.
The safety announcements on the plane are pre-recorded, including the one to the flight attendants to be seated for take-off. Is there a pilot? Or are we a drone? Who is flying this machine? We had to wait to push back from the gate until everything was downloaded into the computer. I had an image of a sync cable attached to the nose of the plane, like my iPad, downloading enough books and movies for the flight.
We have a menu for the flight, which include "cod with asian style sauce" -- all I can think about is the movie "Airplane" (which we watched with Chris or Mike a couple of weeks ago). Everyone who got sick, had the fish. Dare I?
The view out the window looks like a Japanese painting. The sharply peaked snow covered mountains and the turquoiuse rivers winding through very green hills.
The ATM, you need to know the kanji for yen and for 1000, neither was yet in my vocabulary. I ended up with roughly 30 dollars instead of the 300 I was trying for.
You needed a PhD in engineering to work the toilet in the ladies room (though the directions were Englsih, as well as Jaoanese, Korean and simplified Chinese characters, which may have been my problem!)
Rice paddies like glass mosaic from the plane, the blue roofs, now the paddies are shimmering in the sun, the plants just touching the surface, acting like a diffraction grating. Paddies where the plants are taller look like corrugated cardboard, but bright green. Architecturally, this is the most distinctive place I have been outside of Oaxaca.
I look out the window as we are about to push back from the gate. There is a guy in a blue polo and khakis out there with what looks like a phaser in his hand. He's striding toward the front of the plane. I flash back to scenes from the early Star Treks, Kirk, Spock and McCoy on an old Earth, trying some scam to get back to the Enterprise and their own time. He's got on earphones, do they cover Vulcan ears? I listen for the whine of the phaser, hoping it's set on stun. I suspect what he's holding is actually a bar code reader. Do they need to check the plane out of the airport, like a book? It seems incongruous to think that something as large as 777 could have a tiny bar code on it's nose to read.
The safety announcements on the plane are pre-recorded, including the one to the flight attendants to be seated for take-off. Is there a pilot? Or are we a drone? Who is flying this machine? We had to wait to push back from the gate until everything was downloaded into the computer. I had an image of a sync cable attached to the nose of the plane, like my iPad, downloading enough books and movies for the flight.
We have a menu for the flight, which include "cod with asian style sauce" -- all I can think about is the movie "Airplane" (which we watched with Chris or Mike a couple of weeks ago). Everyone who got sick, had the fish. Dare I?
The view out the window looks like a Japanese painting. The sharply peaked snow covered mountains and the turquoiuse rivers winding through very green hills.
The ATM, you need to know the kanji for yen and for 1000, neither was yet in my vocabulary. I ended up with roughly 30 dollars instead of the 300 I was trying for.
You needed a PhD in engineering to work the toilet in the ladies room (though the directions were Englsih, as well as Jaoanese, Korean and simplified Chinese characters, which may have been my problem!)
Rice paddies like glass mosaic from the plane, the blue roofs, now the paddies are shimmering in the sun, the plants just touching the surface, acting like a diffraction grating. Paddies where the plants are taller look like corrugated cardboard, but bright green. Architecturally, this is the most distinctive place I have been outside of Oaxaca.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Hei-wa: still souls
Math Man and I were on a walk yesterday, and happened across an older neighbor, a regular reader of my column in the Standard. She had lots of questions for me, and one for Math Man. "How does she do all that writing?" Math Man: "She stays up late and she is very disciplined."
It's been a very disciplined month, as I finished out the semester and juggled a number of writing deadlines (about 7000 words sent out to three different editors, in eight different pieces, ranging in length from 250 words to just over 3000 words). I've missed writing in this space, with its lack of constraints regard topic, length, format or audience, but have missed more being able to read freely. Still, I've managed to stay on a relatively even keel, partly because, despite Math Man's comment, I've given up giving up sleep.
Patient Spiritual Director has been encouraging some discernment along these lines for some time, and so I've been experimenting with finding "the mean" in my sleep. I think I've found the sweet spot for now, but having done so, I've lost nearly an entire working day from my week. (You can do the math, but I'll save you the effort - an extra 1.5 hours of sleep a night times seven is...10.5 hours.)
One reason I've been juggling deadlines is because I'm off tomorrow on a 2 week trip to Japan. I'm teaching a course next fall on silent spaces in the context of Western contemplative traditions. It's one of a triad of courses looking at contemplative traditions: Eastern, Western and science. We are traveling with the students next fall, to Japan, to Wernersville, to a Benedictine community. This trip is to scope out some of the places and people we want to see when we return with the class. I'm blogging the course here, but will be chronicling travels as well as some of my reading on this blog, too.
What am I reading on the plane? Besides C.S. Lewis' Weight of Glory?
- Sacred Koyasan: A Pilgrimage to the Mountain Temple of Saint Kobo Daishi and the Great SunBuddha, Philip L. Nicoloff, 2007.
- Neural correlates of a mystical experience in Carmelite nuns. Mario Beauregard & Vincent Paquette, Neuroscience Letters 405 (2006) 186–190
And lest you think I'm all that high-minded, I've uploaded a season of Enterprise onto my iPad.
The kanji illustrating this post means "peace," and the two characters can be roughly translated as "still soul" - an layer of meaning I enjoyed discovering.
I've left some posts to appear while I'm gone, and posting on the road is likely to be erratic, I don't expect to have connectivity everywhere I go.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Enraptured
The Philadelphia Inquirer had a front page story about the Rapture - what are the last five things you would do? Eat a steak, watch a movie...despite the fact that I think the end times are no more likely to be upon us today at 6 pm, than any other particular or predicted moment (Mt 24:36 even the angels in heaven do not know), I find myself slightly uncomfortable with the flippant tone in the Inquirer (and other spots, too -- though the CDC advice about zombies did make me laugh.) Perhaps it was the reading from Revelations in the Office of Readings that makes me want to thing seriously about judgement and endings.
I'm reading Weight of Glory, a sermon preached by C.S. Lewis in Oxford amidst truly apocalyptic times, the middle of WW II. These lines struck home:
(A note of merriment: in looking for this quote in my (electronic copy) of Weight of Glory, the search engine seemed unable to locate it: that would be because I have a British version, neighbor does not appear, it's neighbour!)
I'm reading Weight of Glory, a sermon preached by C.S. Lewis in Oxford amidst truly apocalyptic times, the middle of WW II. These lines struck home:
"We must play. But our merriment must be of the kind (and it is, in fact, the merriest kind) which exists between people who have, from the outset, taken each other seriously--no flippancy, no superiority, no presumption. And our charity must be real and costly love, with deep feeling for the sins in spite of which we love the sinners--no mere tolerance, or indulgence which parodies love as flippancy parodies merriment. Next to the Blessed Sacrament itself, your neighbor is the holiest object presented to your senses."A piece that will appear in the Standard while I'm away (in Japan!) takes up this challenge of "costly love" in another context.
(A note of merriment: in looking for this quote in my (electronic copy) of Weight of Glory, the search engine seemed unable to locate it: that would be because I have a British version, neighbor does not appear, it's neighbour!)
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Column: Crossing the threshold of prayer
This column appeared in the Catholic Standard & Times 12 May 2011.
My heart is ready, O God, my heart is ready. I will sing, I will praise your name. — Ps. 57:8
It was a scene right out of a movie about a jewel heist. A black-clad figure creeping into a darkened museum gallery. One wrong move and suddenly the place is ablaze with light. Alarms are blaring, warning lights flash, security teams come running. Cut to the requisite wild chase.
In my case the story was set in a silent Jesuit retreat house in the country, in the depths of winter. Late at night, wearing my black hooded sweatshirt to ward off the chill in the chapel, I went to spend some time in prayer before going to bed. I soundlessly opened the main doors, blessed myself, paused for a moment to recollect myself and stepped into the nave.
At that precise instant, lights began to flash everywhere, including behind the tabernacle, and alarms wailed. My first thought was I had tripped an invisible alarm (clearly I watch too many action flicks). Then I realized this was a fire alarm. No chase scene followed, just many retreatants in pajamas and hastily donned coats heading calmly toward the exits.
I eventually did get to pray in the chapel that night, and have returned several times since, but I must admit that I still find myself bracing for the alarm each time I step into the nave. In all, I’m not sure that’s such a bad thing. I’m far more aware of the moment at which I cross into sacred space, when I commit myself to a time of prayer.
Prayer takes us to a threshold, one that perhaps we should not always cross unaware, or unprepared. When we deliberately walk into God’s space, it might be wise to be “sensible of conditions,” as Annie Dillard suggests in her essay, “An Expedition to the Pole.” She wonders how we dare to come to prayer at all, “Does anyone have the foggiest idea what sort of power we so blithely invoke?”
In his “Spiritual Exercises,” St. Ignatius of Loyola recommends that we come to the threshold of prayer — literally, stop a few steps before the place where you will pray — and pause for a moment: “before all contemplations and meditations, there ought always to be made the preparatory prayer.” This suggested preparation of Ignatius sets a boundary and provides an orientation.
Before prayer, Ignatius directs, ask for God’s grace that your every intention and action be directed purely to the service and praise of His Divine Majesty. Know who you have come to meet in prayer; don’t drift in, blithely insensible of conditions. Know that this time of prayer depends not on you, but on God.
This preparation to pray, which so directly acknowledges our relationship to God, orients not only the time of prayer, but trains us up to be oriented to God in the same way in all our daily work.
It may be as Dillard suggests, “madness to wear ladies’ straw hats and velvet hats to church; we should all be wearing crash helmets.” Certainly these days I am a bit more sensible of conditions when it comes to prayer, attentive to the need to seek God’s grace as I approach the threshold, moving cautiously into the space that opens before me. I can only pray that my heart is ready, O Lord.
Lord, open my lips, and my mouth will proclaim your praise. — From the Invitatory for the Liturgy of the Hours
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Chautaquaed or It's just wrong.
I'm nearing the end of a piece for the International Year of Chemistry, thinking about why there have been so few women Nobel prize winners in chemistry. I have theories and am enjoying the chance to be a bit provocative.
One persistent theory (myth?) is that women really don't want to do science, a thread that I hear echoed in a current discussion on The Deacon's Bench (women don't want to be deacons). John Tierney espouses it here (and I respond here). George Will said it here. Women who do are (pick one or more)
One persistent theory (myth?) is that women really don't want to do science, a thread that I hear echoed in a current discussion on The Deacon's Bench (women don't want to be deacons). John Tierney espouses it here (and I respond here). George Will said it here. Women who do are (pick one or more)
- rare birds
- have an agenda
- are bullied into it by someone else who has an agenda
- aping men (seriously, someone once said that to me)
Given that in the environment of a women's college, women are many times more likely to major in math or science (6 times more likely to major in chemistry at Bryn Mawr than at a co-ed college), it's hard to argue that the dearth of majors is due to lack of general interest on the part of women in these subjects. (Though I suppose you could counter that it's not evidence that we aren't bullying students into majoring in science...) (And really, hardly anyone majors in science anyway, it's only 1% in the US.)
Anyway, I ran across this bit from an article published by Rudyard Kipling (p. 185) in 1890 about his visit to Chautaqua, which voiced similar sentiments:
"It has shown me a new side of American life," I responded. "I never want to see it again—and I'm awfully sorry for the girls who take it seriously. I suppose the bulk of them don't. They just have a good time. But it would be better"
"How?"
"If they all got married instead of pumping up interest in a bric-a-brac museum and advertised lectures, and having their names in the papers. One never gets to believe in the proper destiny of woman until one sees a thousand of 'em doing something different. I don't like Chautauqua. There's something wrong with it, and I haven't time to find out where. But it is wrong."
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Column: We plan, God laughs
This column appeared in the Catholic Standard & Times 12 May 2011.
The Lord said to Abraham: “Why did Sarah laugh and say, ‘Shall I really bear a child, old as I am?’ Is anything too marvelous for the Lord to do? At the appointed time, about this time next year, I will return to you, and Sarah will have a son.” — Gen. 18:13-14
On Friday evening, when I inquired what the hanging basket was doing on the counter, the laconic reply was, “It’s yours. For Mother’s Day.” Ah. Saturday night, they brought me dinner. Pizza, picked up on the way home from Mass. From the same place we’d gotten it for dinner on Friday. On Sunday morning, as I was getting organized to do the grocery shopping [ed. why there was pizza two nights in row], Chris sidled into the kitchen. He pulled out a watercolor of St. Peter’s and the Tiber, which he’d brought back from Rome and conspired with his brother to get framed. No one bothered with wrapping.
It was not the Mother’s Day of the magazines. There was no breakfast in bed, fancy brunch or flowers — unless you count the faded roses from last weekend’s prom on the table. And it was, at least in my view, an utterly perfect Mother’s Day.
I, like Sarah, once laughed at God. Or rather, doubted the marvels He could work. Twenty years ago I was emptying the grocery cart for my mother. She asked how my social life was, and as I stooped to pull the dog food from the bottom, I confessed, “I’m done dating.” I’d been widowed four years earlier, and had decided that remarriage was just not in the cards. Two weeks later I met Victor. Four years after that, I bore a son.
To this day I cannot pray the Magnificat without wondering at what God has done for me. “He has shown the strength of his arm, he has scattered the proud in their conceit.” In preaching on the Magnificat, St. Augustine says, “Come, you who are hungry, who are poor, who are in need. You dare not raise your eyes to heaven, yet you know that is where your heart lies.” I dared not hope, I was willing to settle for peaceful and predictable. Perhaps I was even a bit too proud to admit that I desired hope.
So I marvel at Mary’s openness to the expansiveness of God, to her humble acceptance of things beyond her expectations or even her imaginings. And pray that I, too, might learn from the miracle of my two sons to be more open to whatever wild and unexpected plans God might have for me.
The joy of this Mother’s Day lay in its very ordinariness, in my sons’ unwillingness to limit their gifts to the expected. Instead they continued to be the unlooked for gifts they were when they were born, and let me delight in what it means to be their mother. Nagging about the clutter on the counter, doing the shopping and scrambling to get to their concert on time. Rejoicing in their independence, reveling in the music they can make.
To her credit, my mother never once said, “I told you so.” On the other hand, sometimes I imagine I hear God saying, “Why did you laugh? I told you I could work marvels.” He did. He has. Holy is His name.
My soul magnifies the Lord, my spirit rejoices in God my savior; so tenderly has he looked upon his servant, humble as she is. — From the Magnificat
Yes, these are weeds. But I'm trying to see beauty in a landscape that is overrun with difficulty at the moment. It is there, it is worthy of reverence. Photo is of the walk.
I had a Dantesque drive up to the Jesuit retreat house to see Patient Spiritual Director last night. There is major construction on the PA turnpike, and perforce much of it is being done at night, when there is less traffic to back up. Sections of the road are reduced to one lane chutes, five foot high cement guards double striped with reflectors.
My headlights set the reflectors ablaze. On the other side of the wall, strangely bright orbs on metal stalks made the construction workers and equipment appear to be on stage. The play was set in purgatory, or perhaps hell. The sharp toothed yellow vehicles belched forth smoke, the workers in their reflective vests and headlamps scurried about like so many imps.
I arrived late enough that all the doors were locked but the one staffed by security. I walked from the far parking lot, into the door under the kitchen and down a long corridor, cluttered with odds and ends. Old luggage. Transitory space, to be sure. I emerged into the familiar basement corridors, found my room assignment. Third floor. This could be heaven (by my definition). Dark, cool and so quiet I could hear my shoes squeak.
I was woken by the sun on my face, already strong and high in the sky when it emerged from behind the chapel. The avian chorus was in full swing in the courtyard below. There was one (!) powdered donut left at breakfast. Tea, sweet and strong. A fox bounding across the lawn by the eastern cloister, her red fur furiously aglow in the sun sharp against the green backdrop. Definitely heaven.
Now, having walked and written, and been directed and shriven, I'm for home.
Saturday, May 07, 2011
Can you tell if your child is part-Vulcan?
Barnacle Boy was sprawled in (across?) a chair in the sunroom last night, watching 3rd Rock from the Sun on Netflix while I lounged on the sofa trying to catch up with my email (I'm down to only 31 messages in my "critical" box). He casually reached over and hit the pause button. "Can I ask you something, Mom?" "Sure." "I've been thinking, if you have a two-dimensional surface and two polygons on it that just touch at a vertice...the size of the overlap is zero."
He's right, of course, a point has no width, depth or length. And he's right that it's a bit mind bending. The polygons overlap at one point, but the area of the overlap is zero. Never and always, touching and touched, to quote Spock (orginal series, Amok Time, since we're talking vintage TV here). Now I'm certain this child is part Vulcan (it's from my side, my brother Geek Guru is almost certainly Vulcan).
He leaned over to hit play, then turned back to me and sighed, "I find the shape of sine curves really appealing..."
Of course, based on an earlier conversation, I shouldn't be surprised. And he is the son of a geometer, after all.
Wednesday, May 04, 2011
Column: Flustered for joy
I have very vivid memories of the tailored, lined pink tweed coats, and of the sled ride to Mass, but couldn't precisely place the year. A search of the Chicago Tribune archives turned up the story of the surprise Easter snow storm. My mother, tucked away in the basement sewing would have had no idea that snow was falling on her Easter parade.
Augustine's commentary was (and is) truly consoling, I often imagine how difficult those early days must have been for the disciples. Could they believe their eyes?
The full quote from Martin Laird, OSA is from Into the Silent Land:
"This is why most people don't stick with a contemplative discipline for very long; we have all heard all sorts of talk about contemplation bringing inner peace but when we turn within to seek this peace, we meet inner chaos instead of peace. But at this point it is precisely the meeting of chaos that is salutary, not snorting of lines of euphoric peace."
This column appeared in the Catholic Standard & Times on 4 May 2011.
He himself stood among them and said to them, “Peace be with you!” In a state of alarm and fright, they thought they were seeing a ghost. But he said, “Why are you so agitated, and why are these doubts rising in your hearts?” — Lk. 24: 36b-38
“The weather bureau reported itself at a loss to account for the sudden snowfall….” read the article in the Chicago Tribune on Easter Monday 1964. Easter that year had dawned on an unexpectedly snowy landscape. My mother, seven months pregnant, had been up all Holy Saturday night, putting the finishing touches on our Easter outfits. She’d heard the wind howling, but hadn’t realized it was a near blizzard outside.
I still remember my mother’s insistence that, despite the bitter weather, we would wear the new spring coats she’d spent all night finishing, blue tweed for my brother, pink for the girls. My father, knowing he was outmatched, bundled the three of us up in a blanket, put us on the sled and towed us through 10 inches of snow to St. Luke’s for Easter Mass. It may have looked like winter, but the springing to life of Easter was not to be so easily thwarted.
In retrospect, I wonder if it was that early Easter of contradictions that set the tone for later Easters. Easter is a feast that often leaves me feeling like the disciples in this scene from Luke, frightened by the sudden appearance of the risen Jesus, while simultaneously trying to grasp His joyous greeting, “Peace be with you!”
Two decades after that memorable surprise Easter snowstorm, my celebration of Easter was once again paradoxical. I spent Easter morning eating brunch in a local hotel where the noise of families celebrating in their Easter finery burbled merrily around me, and Easter afternoon in the hush of a funeral home greeting mourners at my husband’s wake.
St. Augustine, reflecting on how the disciples faced the reality of the resurrection, well captures these contradictory emotions, “they were still flustered for joy; they were rejoicing and doubting at the same time.” I struggled that Easter, and struggle still, to reconcile my own grief at Tom’s loss with my joy for him, now at rest in God. So I find Augustine’s matter-of-fact acknowledgment of the tumultuous reactions of the disciples in the aftermath of the resurrection to be consoling.
In fact, Augustine notes, within this swirling chaos is an opportunity for grace. The disciples on the road to Emmaus were also troubled, and poured forth their confusion to a Christ they could not recognize and in “the depth of their despair, all unwitting, they showed the doctor their wounds.” Even if I could not fully comprehend Christ resurrected in my life at such a moment, Christ could yet work on the wounds that my very struggle to grasp the realities revealed.
Sixteen hundred years later, Augustinian Father Martin Laird echoes Augustine’s wisdom to those seeking to find Christ’s “Peace be with you!” in prayer and contemplation: “When we turn within to seek this peace, we meet inner chaos instead of peace. But at this point it is precisely the meeting of chaos that is salutary...” The resurrection does not obliterate the pain of Christ’s passion, or of our own travails. Instead, like the disciples in the upper room, and on the road to Emmaus, it is a place where those of us who are flustered by joy in sorrow, who are simultaneously mourning and rejoicing, meet Christ. It is the place where Christ works within us.
Even in their fullness, the first disciples’ lives would be marked by contradiction and chaos. Nourished by joy, filled with grace, nevertheless they would be tried by fire. Perhaps Easter snowstorms shouldn’t be so unexpected after all.
All-powerful God, help us to proclaim the power of the Lord’s resurrection. May we who accept this sign of the love of Christ come to share the eternal life he reveals. Amen. — From the Opening Prayer for Tuesday of the Second Week of Easter
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