The winter rain has begun to fall. My small room is surrounded by trees. I can hear the drops of water as they fall gently from leaf to leaf, and then to ground.
Listening to the world is effortless. We hear the sounds of the busy world in the voices of our family, friends, neighbors, co-workers. Some noise is necessary. Other noise is distraction.
Whether in village life, or city life, silence is precious and hard to find. The search for quiet requires effort.
But, it is in this silence that we are able to hear, and properly discern, the voice of God.
We all have the ability, and the on-going opportunity to listen to God. It takes practice, patience, and trust.
We must be certain though, that it is the voice of God we are hearing and not the cacophony of our own thoughts and desires. We must struggle to quell the inner tempest of emotions, in order to prepare space for the Sacred. This process takes great practice.
And even when we provide the space for God, it is not a visit that occurs on command. God's time is not to be measured by human convenience. Patience is necessary.
The voice of God, when it is heard, is a deeply personal experience. World wars have been fought in misguided attempts to claim ownership over the language of God. Ionesco may well have been correct when he surmised that "philology leads to calamity."
There is no one experience or definition for He whose Name is so holy that It cannot be named, or quantified.
Certainly, there are tools that can aid us in our yearning to be One. Silence, sacred scripture, nature, chores, work on behalf of others, structured prayer; all can help us to become more receptive to God's voice living all around us.
We listen trustingly. We trust that which we hear is that which must be heard.
In fairness, building such trust may require a lifetime. But, we strive to listen nevertheless. We can't help ourselves. Like the earth receiving the falling rain, we long to hear the gentle notes of God's love.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Friday, November 18, 2011
Hesychia
The humble goldfish has much to teach us. Like the goldfish, we too are hand-selected, and are led to the specific setting or environment in which to serve and live out our charism. Some of us live in a small bowl, others of us in a large aquarium, and still others of us are led to roam freely in thriving ponds. But, all of us have the following trait in common; we have been chosen by God.
The goldfish has its own language. It is a language that speaks of contemplation, discipline, detachment, stillness, patient endurance, and peace.
The goldfish is wise, yet, requires constant care, as do we.
From our infancy, it is God who has been leading us. And, being so loved, we remain consciously grateful to the hand that generously continues to provide for us.
At all times we pray.
The goldfish bowl itself is a visual metaphor for the hermitage within. It is the place we retire to for quiet. But, though set apart, we remain open and accessible to others, and the world around us. We become a living symbol for our community.
Life in the goldfish bowl may make us vulnerable, but we serve an ineffable purpose. Perhaps we become a reflective surface for others, reminding them of a slower, more silent, pace in which to reconnect with that which truly matters.
The goldfish has its own language. It is a language that speaks of contemplation, discipline, detachment, stillness, patient endurance, and peace.
The goldfish is wise, yet, requires constant care, as do we.
From our infancy, it is God who has been leading us. And, being so loved, we remain consciously grateful to the hand that generously continues to provide for us.
At all times we pray.
The goldfish bowl itself is a visual metaphor for the hermitage within. It is the place we retire to for quiet. But, though set apart, we remain open and accessible to others, and the world around us. We become a living symbol for our community.
Life in the goldfish bowl may make us vulnerable, but we serve an ineffable purpose. Perhaps we become a reflective surface for others, reminding them of a slower, more silent, pace in which to reconnect with that which truly matters.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Forgiveness
When the storm comes, it is best to stay out of the rain. Due to stubborn pride, I did not listen to the gentle instruction of Wisdom. I chose to go out into the storm, though I distinctly heard the Voice of God urging me to stay in.
Despite the lateness of the day, and the harshness of the weather, I convinced myself that errands could not wait until the morning. In the tiny public transport van, en route from the post office, it happened. Evil is like that, striking at will. On that day, at that hour, in that moment, on that van, a bully chose to target me. Abusers have no impulse control, like a hungry lion, they pounce on their prey.
When very bad things happen to us, we suddenly remember our authentic self. Though we may not have listened to Wisdom before the catalyst event, we do manage to finally listen when face to face with Evil.
Sometimes, we are fortunate, and are allowed, by circumstances, the means to escape, unharmed, unscathed. Sometimes, we are not so blessed. Evil comes upon us. The abuser delights in our pain and discomfort. The bully strikes repeatedly with threats and intimidation.
In this specific case, I did my best not to antagonize. I even changed seats in an effort to disengage. Abusers confuse our desire for peace with weakness. Lacking all self-control and respect for personal boundaries, abusers seek to destroy that which they perceive to be a personal affront to their way of life.
As I moved and changed seats, the bully followed me, changing his seat as well. We were in a small confined space; a moving public transport van. No physical escape was possible. No passenger came to my defense. The driver was either unaware, or unwilling to get involved. I was all alone against the bully, as is often the case when we find ourselves in battle against Evil.
The sky darkened, and the rain began to fall. As I could not physically escape my tormentor, I chose to leave my body, and surrender my spirit to the light of God. My abuser could then hurt or mortally wound my body, but my true self would be one with God. To be thus threatened, bullied, and abused; that journey through hell lasted an eternity.
At the bus shelter, in front of the food market, a woman cradled an infant in her arms. I hurried inside the store to buy bread and bottled water. The air was bitterly cold. I longed to return home. Having made my purchase, bags in hand, I huddled by the shelter, and noticed the infant in the woman's arms was actually a doll!
I stood there and watched the nameless, homeless woman tenderly cover her doll in a blanket. She rocked her baby gently, back and forth, while singing a lullaby. My knees buckling, I sat down next to the woman on the bench, as we waited for the last bus Home.
The wind blew. The rain continued to fall. It was cold, snow was imminent. and the woman continued to rock her baby. I recognized the cherubic cabbage-patch features of the doll. I had once owned one, in my youth. Instinctively, I understood this woman was the Universal Mother. Her baby doll was a symbol for all children, all those orphaned, abandoned, exiled, unloved, and imprisoned.
It is written that the word "angel" denotes function not nature. This woman next to me was a angel of Mercy. Her function was to deliver God's message. "God is Healing."
The soothing notes of her lullaby washed over me. I felt the tears flowing freely down my cheeks. I heard myself crying, sobbing. "Oh, God!" I cried out, "I'm hurting!"
Sometimes in life, we who are for peace must live among those who are not for peace. We who profess to be for love are tested by those who are not for love. We who say that we are for non-violence are challenged by those who are for hate.
So, do we bite the hook, and respond in kind? Is vigilante justice to be the law of the land?
For some people, it is absolutely appropriate to pick up the sword to fight the good fight. We are all warriors, each in our own way.
Discernment is key.
I was not chosen for battle with a sword. The angelic visitor sitting next to me on that bench was sent to deliver a message of healing, not vengeance.
People who passed by, stared at the woman and her doll. "She's crazy." They hissed, as they walked. I would submit to these worldly men and women of the jury that true crazy is destructive.
The young man on the bus would be considered normal by society. His dress, speech, countenance were fair to behold. By contrast, the woman and her doll were dressed in soiled tattered clothing. The woman's speech was labored and clumsy. But, of the two individuals, who was truly crazy? True crazy is evil and destructive!
The angelic messenger waited with me, and she and her doll, and I rode the bus Homeward Bound.
Mercy is not something we practice when only convenient. Mercy is a way of life. In forgiving ourselves, and those who seek to harm us, we free ourselves from the tragic event, or on-going abuse.
As for Justice, in time, the Truth will out. It always does.
That night, I went to sleep, and dreamt that I was in a large toy store filled with white-clad cabbage-patch dolls, all smiling, dancing, and singing.
Amen.
Despite the lateness of the day, and the harshness of the weather, I convinced myself that errands could not wait until the morning. In the tiny public transport van, en route from the post office, it happened. Evil is like that, striking at will. On that day, at that hour, in that moment, on that van, a bully chose to target me. Abusers have no impulse control, like a hungry lion, they pounce on their prey.
When very bad things happen to us, we suddenly remember our authentic self. Though we may not have listened to Wisdom before the catalyst event, we do manage to finally listen when face to face with Evil.
Sometimes, we are fortunate, and are allowed, by circumstances, the means to escape, unharmed, unscathed. Sometimes, we are not so blessed. Evil comes upon us. The abuser delights in our pain and discomfort. The bully strikes repeatedly with threats and intimidation.
In this specific case, I did my best not to antagonize. I even changed seats in an effort to disengage. Abusers confuse our desire for peace with weakness. Lacking all self-control and respect for personal boundaries, abusers seek to destroy that which they perceive to be a personal affront to their way of life.
As I moved and changed seats, the bully followed me, changing his seat as well. We were in a small confined space; a moving public transport van. No physical escape was possible. No passenger came to my defense. The driver was either unaware, or unwilling to get involved. I was all alone against the bully, as is often the case when we find ourselves in battle against Evil.
The sky darkened, and the rain began to fall. As I could not physically escape my tormentor, I chose to leave my body, and surrender my spirit to the light of God. My abuser could then hurt or mortally wound my body, but my true self would be one with God. To be thus threatened, bullied, and abused; that journey through hell lasted an eternity.
At the bus shelter, in front of the food market, a woman cradled an infant in her arms. I hurried inside the store to buy bread and bottled water. The air was bitterly cold. I longed to return home. Having made my purchase, bags in hand, I huddled by the shelter, and noticed the infant in the woman's arms was actually a doll!
I stood there and watched the nameless, homeless woman tenderly cover her doll in a blanket. She rocked her baby gently, back and forth, while singing a lullaby. My knees buckling, I sat down next to the woman on the bench, as we waited for the last bus Home.
The wind blew. The rain continued to fall. It was cold, snow was imminent. and the woman continued to rock her baby. I recognized the cherubic cabbage-patch features of the doll. I had once owned one, in my youth. Instinctively, I understood this woman was the Universal Mother. Her baby doll was a symbol for all children, all those orphaned, abandoned, exiled, unloved, and imprisoned.
It is written that the word "angel" denotes function not nature. This woman next to me was a angel of Mercy. Her function was to deliver God's message. "God is Healing."
The soothing notes of her lullaby washed over me. I felt the tears flowing freely down my cheeks. I heard myself crying, sobbing. "Oh, God!" I cried out, "I'm hurting!"
Sometimes in life, we who are for peace must live among those who are not for peace. We who profess to be for love are tested by those who are not for love. We who say that we are for non-violence are challenged by those who are for hate.
So, do we bite the hook, and respond in kind? Is vigilante justice to be the law of the land?
For some people, it is absolutely appropriate to pick up the sword to fight the good fight. We are all warriors, each in our own way.
Discernment is key.
I was not chosen for battle with a sword. The angelic visitor sitting next to me on that bench was sent to deliver a message of healing, not vengeance.
People who passed by, stared at the woman and her doll. "She's crazy." They hissed, as they walked. I would submit to these worldly men and women of the jury that true crazy is destructive.
The young man on the bus would be considered normal by society. His dress, speech, countenance were fair to behold. By contrast, the woman and her doll were dressed in soiled tattered clothing. The woman's speech was labored and clumsy. But, of the two individuals, who was truly crazy? True crazy is evil and destructive!
The angelic messenger waited with me, and she and her doll, and I rode the bus Homeward Bound.
Mercy is not something we practice when only convenient. Mercy is a way of life. In forgiving ourselves, and those who seek to harm us, we free ourselves from the tragic event, or on-going abuse.
As for Justice, in time, the Truth will out. It always does.
That night, I went to sleep, and dreamt that I was in a large toy store filled with white-clad cabbage-patch dolls, all smiling, dancing, and singing.
Amen.
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