A New Year

This is just a short bit. It is almost a new year and a time when we may find ourselves looking back and looking forward in a way we perhaps rarely do. Sometimes, I suppose, we hardly want to look back if the year has been a hard one for us - illness, sorrow, financial problems - whatever troubles our lives. Looking forward is always a hopeful thing I think but a bit unsubstantial because life never quite goes where we had hoped it might. Sometimes it is even more wonderful than we dreamed; sometimes it is a bit worse. 

But in all this: the good, the hard, the unexpected, I believe that it can all be seen with a heart of gratitude. Does that seem odd when you are faced with hardship? sorrow? terrible difficulties? It isn't that it makes light of hardship or that it is in any way a good thing but that somehow, a gift of gratitude lightens the burden of our sorrow. It is still sorrow but it is lightened by a sense that there is much that we can be grateful for - perhaps most especially that we are loved and cherished by our God.

Someone recently sent this link which I found expressed all that I might want to say about gratitude and joy and my hope for today and tomorrow and the coming year.  http://clicks.robertgenn.com/critique-self.php . Watch it full-screen if you can.

Christmas

I imagine most of us know the experience of finding that the anticipation of a something can be better than the reality. If it is a vacation, you long for the sun, the warmth, the relaxation  and when the reality comes it just doesn't live up to all the dreams. Maybe it can't.  I think something like this happens at Christmas.

Perhaps more than most holidays Christmas has dreams attached.  Family. A tree with lovely lights and baubles. Presents. Peace. Snow. All these things have emotions attached to them and a lot of our imagination and anticipation is invested in these emotions. But the day comes and perhaps there is disappointment: we squabble with the family, the weather is dreadful, we don't like our presents or someone we love doesn't seem to like what we gave them. I have wondered what these probably unreal expectations say about our understanding of Christmas.


It seems that for so many people Christmas has become a secular holiday. This probably means that  the great majority of people no longer know the origins of the feast in the birth of Jesus. Perhaps then, that also means that people aren't quite sure just what Christmas is 'for'. It is true that there is much that gives many people joy at Christmas - it is a time for family and for celebrating friendships around a shared meal, for giving and receiving gifts. It is sadly, also a time when the lonely feel more alone, when the homeless suffer more from the loss of their roots, when the elderly long for a visit from their family and often may not get it, when the poor can't share in the abundant gifts on offer in the stores. Has it just become an opportunity to have a rather light-hearted family festival in the middle of winter?


The older I get the more simple Christmas becomes for me. Of course, I love giving and getting gifts and being with family but if all that were taken away Christmas would still be, for me, a wonderful time of gratitude and joy. The gratitude is for the most elegant and transforming gift of all: the gift of God's love for us in Jesus, the human face of God. And the joy is just joy for such a gift. Oddly, this is not dependent upon lots of presents or their value or on whether life is going smoothly or is suffering. It is simply and purely the only gift that in the end, gives my life any meaning.


Right now some of my family are celebrating Hannukuh. It too is a feast in recognition of God's goodness and love and it is a feast filled with light and family and thanksgiving. I think we all need something like that to keep us from simply living on the surface.


So, to all who may read this I wish you a blessed holiday, a Christmas filled with love that lasts, a Hannukuh filled with life. I will be back in a couple of weeks.

More about God

I have been doing some more pondering about God .

As I said before, the most helpful way I see God is through and in, the person of Jesus as he is unveiled to me in the Gospels and as my heart unfolds to him. Again, I know that God is revealed to others differently through their faith or through other mysterious ways. But I believe it is the same God.

As I said too, I think there are probably as many ways to see God as there are people. For many God is: 'out there' , 'judge', 'angry', 'all powerful', 'aloof', 'silent'.  There are others who have seen or experienced someone (or something) different. This God is: 'for us', 'beauty', 'joy', 'compassion', 'truth', 'integrity', 'delight in us'. How do we come to see such a different picture? Are there some right and some wrong? Could all be true? Obviously, I don't know the answer but I think that is why I find the God Jesus reveals to be something that 'makes sense' in my deepest heart .

I am reading another lovely book by Elizabeth Johnson called: Friends of God and Prophets. In one part of it she is talking about what the phrase 'the glory of God' has meant to people. She says ' Uttering words of comfort to people suffering the distress of exile, second Isaiah proclaims the glory of the Lord will be revealed namely, when they are delivered... [The glory of God] signifies divine beauty flashing out in the world and in particular bent over brokenness and anguish, moving to heal, redeem and liberate. It is a synonym for the holy God's elusive presence and action in the midst of historical trouble.' 

It seems likely that the God who is described there by Elizabeth Johnson and Isaiah is one we would like most; one who comes to us with comfort and healing and who mends our brokenness. But of course, we still have to contend with the God who seems silent and aloof because that is so often our experience. That for me is where Jesus fits in.

I see Jesus showing us not the all powerful, angry, judgmental God but the God who will transform our hearts so that we will care for one another; love one another; heal one another. I think he is saying that it is our hearts that matter not whether we live or die today; not whether we suffer or don't, today. I think Jesus' God is saying, 'if your hearts are open and loving then much of the suffering and anger and poverty and violence will be over and the glory of God will be found in the earth. 


Suffering is horrible and we should do all that we can to overcome it. But it will come to us whether we like it or not and it seems to me that the God whose glory hovers over the brokenness and anguish, redeeming and liberating is the God I want around then and always. I know I am part of that brokenness and anguish and that is why I need that God.


I write these words knowing that whoever reads them will struggle with them, will challenge them perhaps but is that not good? Because each struggle and each challenge hopefully,  brings us all closer to the real God whom we still hardly know.

How do you think of God?

I was recently at a bible study group and someone asked the question: ' who is God for you?' or 'how do you see God?'. That question took me back to a time some years ago when a group of children (maybe they were 11 or 12 years old ) came to our monastery to learn about our life. We started to talk about how we felt called to that kind of life by God, and were going on from there except... One little girl raised her hand and said ' what is this word God, what is God?'

Internally at least, my mouth dropped! I realized that I was totally out of touch with that aspect of much of today's world. We were usually only in contact with people who, even if they didn't believe much, had some concept of what the word God might mean. My goodness. None of us knew quite how to answer that question in a way that might provide some understandable idea for these children. It was a very, very important moment for me because it opened a new door onto our world as it is for many people.

So, when we were asked this time, about who or what God is, I knew my answer was only my answer. I know that there is a catechism answer but I don't think that has much, if any real meaning these days. My answer - my answer - was right now at this time of my life, to recall what Jesus is made to say in John's gospel: 'to have seen me, is to have seen the Father' (or the beloved or whatever word you might want to use) so if I look at Jesus I see what God is like. That suits me because it gives me a picture and a way of life and a spirit of love to identify with and I need that. 

One of the other people in the group said that his image of God was something like 'the beating heart at the center of the world' - which is beautiful. Another said something about 'God is spirit, the Spirit of love in our hearts'. 

It does seem to me that God can be rather elusive and so it is hard for us to get close. That for me, is why I much appreciate the role of Jesus. He is someone I can relate to, someone who teaches me. But at the same time I have no doubt about the presence of Jesus still as Spirit - deep in our hearts, empowering us to live his life if we so choose.

I know there are as many ways of seeing God as there are people and maybe that says something amazing about God - something about availability and presence in a way that makes sense to each of us. I think the only thing that constrains that is that one's own way of knowing God cannot be evil or harmful or violent. God , real God, can only be good and loving. It is sometimes hard to comprehend that in our world of violence and innocent suffering but I think that has more to do with us and our abuse of freedom than it does with God.

So how do you see God? or do you?

A delightful Scarlet Pimpernel

I love words. And as with most people, over the years I have come to experience their power - for better and for worse. We all know the sorrow and despair of hurtful words and too, the joy and healing of words of love. We know the way words can be twisted and misused; we know words that will clarify and speak truth. 

There is one word that particularly appeals to me at this season of the year. It is the word 'delight'. I find this word so wonderfully powerful especially when it is used of God. In the scriptures we hear that God delights in us; that God delights in all creation. Delight is about joy I think, and so instead of the God of wrath and judgment we should be hearing about this God of joy who delights in all of us.

I believe that Christmas is all about experiencing this word. For God gives us a gift out of delight.  God gives us first, the vulnerable baby and then the man. This man, Jesus,  both shows us how to be human and how to be delight-ful. I am sure that for other religions there are also many reflections of God's delight but for me, I see through Christian eyes so that is what I can speak of.

So we feel delight that is a reflection of Jesus' delight. Even in small daily ways we can experience it. When a child does something simple and beautiful, like smile or laugh or play we feel delight. When the sun shines on the tree-tops and turns them orange and makes them glow, we take delight. When we hear a piece of music that transforms our spirits, that too is delightful. 

It also feels to me that there is not  a big difference between delight and beauty. Certainly beauty gives us delight and both are Godly. Beauty is what makes our spirits lift . I can recall walking in a field some years ago. It was a perfect summer day, sunny with the enveloping sensation of  the scent of fresh grass and the rustle of trees in the breeze. I looked down towards the edge of the path and saw this tiny, tiny flower, hardly visible in the long grass. I knelt down to examine it and I thought my heart would burst with delight and joy. It was, I now know, a Scarlet Pimpernel. It was exquisitely formed and deep in its center were beautiful shades of yellow and burnt orange contrasting with the scarlet of the flower. There were tiny dots of other color as well and all this beauty hardly visible, rarely seen, but blossoming there in the long summer grass as if it were the most beautiful thing in the world. Perhaps we have all experienced something like this. I hope so.

I guess I am writing about this because that is how I see Christmas. Perhaps our world would be a happier place if we knew how to be more aware of the delight all around us; if we took delight in one another and if we trusted that we ourselves are delightful in God's eyes.

Something about l'Arche

Now I want to talk about l'Arche - or at least something of my own personal experience of it . If you don't know about l'Arche here are some links:http://www.larche.org/home.en;  http://www.larche.ca/,  http://www.larchevancouver.org/.


In 1973 I went to live at the first l'Arche community in Canada- Daybreak in Richmond Hill just north of Toronto. There I met some truly wonderful and interesting men and women many of whom were in some sense, people who had been cast aside by our society. After a year at Daybreak - living and working together with my new friends pretty much 24/7 - I went with Peggy to open a new community in Burnaby B. C. We had been offered a very big but most welcome house, by the United Church of Canada. It had at one time been a home for unwed mothers but was no longer needed (that I guess is another issue) and was offered to us for $1 a year, furnished and with food still in the larder!


Starting almost as soon as we arrived in 1974 we went out to what was then one of the largest institutions for people with intellectual disabilities. There were many, many women and men who had been there for long years, housed in crowded facilities with almost nothing to do but sit and rock back and forth. This was common in those days in part because these were people who were pretty much at the bottom of the list of caring. In the end, we met a number of people who would, I think, have liked to come to our new community but we were only able to take two at that time: Ken and his friend Rick.

Both of these men had what is usually called Down Syndrome. The staff had told us that Ken would likely not live for more than a year because of a heart condition but we decided that whatever his future, we would ask him to come if he wished. He was interesting, had lots to say and would be a good foundation member. (He is still alive in 2011!). Rick was a man of few words - none really. In all the years I have known him, he has never said a word but in spite of that, there is almost never any doubt about what he is saying with all the other ways he has of communicating. So these two men plus  Bill who had been living with his brother, Geraldine who had been living at home and Iris who had been living in a group home were the founding members. Many more followed but these were the ones upon whom the community was built.

In my earlier post I spoke about the kind of life experience living in community is on forming each person. That was just as true of l'Arche as of a Carmelite community. We were with each other living as a family - the core members like Ken and Rick and some assistants who came to join and to share the life. We lived through a great many growth pains, both personal and communal. We grew together, we struggled together, we fought together. But we also celebrated together, prayed together and played together. It was, I believe, a grace-filled life together, a place of welcome and a small light in an often dark world.

When I left to go to the monastery I left with great sadness. Most of my friends could not understand why I went or what I was going to. And yet, over the 30 years I was away I often heard from Ken especially, because it was almost as if he had a vocation to keep in touch with all those who had come and gone over the years. I would receive a letter (thank God for a post office which was prepared to do a bit of deciphering) which might say no more than: 'Dear Judie, I am fine how are you? I miss you! Come back to Canada. Love from your friend Ken'. He would sometimes give me a bit of news about others whom he knew I would want to hear about.


When I returned and was able to visit them all in 2009 I was so touched by the welcome I received. It filled my heart with gratitude. But added to that was what I saw as a real growth in maturity and responsibility of the core members - the men and women who had come from institutions and homes and, not to forget as well, loving homes. Over the years many assistants had come and gone and it was the core members who were the steady heart of the community. And in that particular community, it was Ken who had become the holder of the community's memory of the past. It was Ken who had kept all the people who had come and gone in his thoughts and who was  the wise and stable man at the heart of it all. 

This is not to deny at all the contribution of all the other men and women who form the heart of the community. There are some of the most interesting people I have ever met there; unique and wonderful. Nor is it to deny that we are talking about flesh and blood human beings, so we are also speaking of suffering, anger, woundedness of spirit - just as you would find anywhere. But here were people whom we had discarded as useless who have turned out to be a richness of humanity it is impossible to value.

About life in the monastic community

I said in my last post that I wanted to share about my friends in l'Arche. But then, I felt that before I do that I want to say a bit about my sisters in the monastic life. They were my companions over 30 years; their friendship, the joys and difficulties we shared, the sorrows we experienced, the insights that formed us have helped me to be, for better or for worse, the person I now am.

One of the things visitors, friends, strangers ask about the monastic life is, what do you actually do? When they are told that the vocation is primarily, to pray for our world, they go on to ask, couldn't you do something more useful like nursing or teaching or working with the poor? And the answer is, no. 

There are two things at work here: the first is the idea of 'call' and the second is the belief that prayer is, in and of itself, useful. Each sister feels 'called' to this specific form of life, feeling that here in this monastery, in this community is where she belongs. Obviously, if you cannot see any value in prayer and in communal living then you will not see any value in this kind of life.

Life in an 'enclosed' environment is very demanding when you are living together 24/7 . You are living with between 10 and 20 other women whom you might not have chosen to live with, whose backgrounds are widely different and whose temperaments are as varied as any other walk of life. The sisters I have lived with have come with many life experiences. Most have carried responsible jobs, one or two have been married, a number have advanced education. There are artists, poets, musicians. There are women from all classes of society and a variety of cultures. 

I believe that what makes all this work is first of all, a common sense of goal - the community is there to do, in secular words, a job. Secondly and more important perhaps, is the sense that part of that work is to try to be the presence of love in our world. Because that is what God is: love. So in these small, fragile communities of women love is really worked at. However difficult for instance, a clash of temperaments may be, each one works to resolve difficulties, to ask or give forgiveness - though it may take time. Each one tries to be a sister to all the others, not just some. Each one tries to appreciate the gifts of the others even when one might want to be consumed with jealousy. 

Each community is meant to be self-supporting so there is remunerative work to be done in the times between communal and individual prayer. There is a time of socializing in the evening for an hour (I am talking here about a specific form of contemplative life, that of the Discalced Carmelites). There are times of celebration and most of all this is embedded in a constant, deep and nourishing silence. It is a full life and for those who are called, a fulfilling one.

One of the other questions people ask is: aren't you running away from life by hiding in a monastery? I hope you may see from the above sketch of community living that it would be hard to run away from such constant presence of other human beings. It can seem a bit like pebbles in a tumbler, rubbing against each other, eventually, hopefully, polishing each other to their fullest beauty.  It is a wonderful and difficult school of learning to love. And because love is the most important 'quality' of our God it is the most important way each has to be a follower of Jesus.

I wanted to share this because I want to honour the sisters I have left behind. They are living out for us all, a demanding and unappreciated life of prayer. I think we will all discover someday how those small lights shining in our world, have made our lives and our world a great deal better .

About human dignity in the midst of horror

I wanted to write a bit more about my experiences of India as I recall them after all these years. It was, as I said before, a transforming time for me - it changed my whole life in just about every way possible.

I spoke in my blog- maybe the time before the last one - of our arrival in Calcutta and the profound collision it was against my western, well-to-do life. We visited Mother Teresa's Home for the Dying, her home for abandoned children, her home for anyone who had no one and nothing. I could not have imagined life at this level. It was not ever anything I would have met in the normal course of my life in Canada. And yet here were human beings who perhaps for the first time in their lives were being loved and cared for.

But I wanted to share just one experience that has stayed with me because it seemed to me to hold  all the variety of what we saw in the poorest of the poor. We had gone to Madras on the train...in itself a most un-North American journey: food of distinctly uncertain origin to be bought through the window from people walking up and down the platform; toilets that consisted of a hole in the floor (no seat, nothing), blankets for rent that may or may not have been clean by our standards.  But this is a diversion.

When we got to Madras we met with some of Mother Teresa's sisters and they had asked us if we would care to go with them on their small van to a group of lepers for whom they changed bandages and did what they could. We of course said yes, though with trepidation.

We drove to what appeared to me to be a railroad siding. There were no trees only dust and flat and heat. The people who lived in this little community had erected small metal roofed shacks - ovens, I would think, in the heat. I presume that running water and electricity were not any part of this. It was clear that the arrival of the sisters and their van was an important event for them - possibly the only medical attention they were getting.


As we arrived and the people saw that there were 3 visitors they were so very welcoming. Out came something for us to sit on - old kitchen chairs, now backless, which they put in the only shady place there was - under the overhang of the roof of the building at which the van had stopped. I was so moved by this. Why should they pay any attention to us? why should they share with us from their very meagre household furniture? Why should they welcome us at all for their lives were clearly, miserable in the extreme. 


It was this small attention to the strangers in their midst that touched me profoundly. Here were people, rejected totally by their society, in dreadful physical condition - missing noses, missing ears, missing limbs which had just been eaten away not surgically removed and more and more and more. 

For the first time in my life, I began to ask myself how we can allow people to live like this. But it was also the first time in my life that I realised that, for the most part, however dreadful life is, there is an amazing sense in each person of their dignity as human beings; as people who are worthy - whether anyone else thought so or not. I saw it later when I went to l'Arche with people who had been terribly rejected but in whom there was a dignity that touched me to the very core of my being. 


In further blogs I would like to introduce you to some of my l'Arche friends and to try to explore this incredible sense of human dignity that for me, points to the God who loves.

The beauty of age

The other morning I walked down to the building where my brother and sister-in-law live. It was to my mind, just about the most perfect day I could imagine. The sky was brilliantly clear, the air was crisp and not too cold, the colors were radiant: yellows, oranges, reds in trees and flowers even and green grass. Wonderful. 

What went through my mind as I walked was a sense that this almost perfect beauty was like a gift to hold on to before the grey and blear of winter set in. It is a bit like the hope and lift of the heart you feel when you see the first signs of Spring's very different beauty.

Then, I suppose because it is what some people my age think about, I found myself contrasting this prelude of glorious if slightly fading beauty before the grey of winter, with middle and old age. Middle age is, or can be, in so many ways a beautiful time. One is, if well, still fit enough to do what one wants physically and mentally. There is, hopefully, a certain wisdom that makes life a bit more peaceful and sometimes, as a gift, there can be quite, quite brilliant understanding and appreciation of the beauty of life. All this of course, is subject to the qualifications of life experience - a bit, possibly, like the difference between a tree that is quite beautiful but whose colours are modified by blotches of some sort and a tree that has remained relatively unscathed.

Then, slowly we move into old age - the wintery season of our lives as Karl Rahner would put it - when we are losing our leaves and feeling less full of the energy that propelled us earlier. We become - many of us - increasingly less agile and more dependent and sometimes distressed by all this. And yet, and yet... isn't there a magnificent, stark beauty in the winter trees? You can see their shapes and the strength of their trunks and guess the depths of their roots. So perhaps, however badly we may feel, we could also see beauty in age - it is after all, its own part of the journey. We tend sometimes it seems to me, to see the frailty, possibly the crankiness, the wrinkles. But why can't these be beautiful? They are after all, the fruit of a life lived and every single one of us, if we do not die young, will arrive there in the end. Maybe we lose a lot of the enjoyment of life when we too narrowly define beauty.

More about transforming experiences

What do you think you would do if someone offered to expose you to the worst kind of poverty and suffering you could ever imagine? Add to that exposure the worst, most indigestible food, death, flies, mosquitos and racism? How would you feel?

In 1972 with an offer of just those things my friend Sue asked if I would like to go to India with her to visit the communities of Mother Teresa and Jean Vanier in order for her to get material for a book she was commissioned to write. Naturally, I said, ‘Not on your life’! However, less than 24 hours later, knowing however faintly, that this was one of those life-changing decisions and knowing that, however frightening it would be, it was something that I must do, I phoned her and said ‘yes’, I would go.

Years later Sue said that she had no idea what possessed her to ask me because we hardly knew each other. The moment she had raised the question, she said to herself, ‘what on earth have I done?’. But of course, it was too late for her to take the question back and in fact, too late for me to have said ‘no’. So we, and a young woman who was to take the photos were irrevocably committed to this life-changing adventure.

In March of 1972 (I think it was) we boarded a plane at Toronto airport. Outside, there was snow and indeed, the treacherous remains of an ice-storm. Many hours later - I have forgotten how many - after stops at Rome, Cairo (my first experience of being frisked) we landed in Mumbai (it was still Bombay at that time). Here, we changed planes and began a flight across India to Calcutta.

About half-way into our flight there was a stop. I cannot now remember the name of the place but I imagine we were meant to be there. This was long before the kind of security we know so well at airports but none the less, it was my first experience of the new life into which I was entering for the next few weeks. The plane landed on a tarmac but not at a terminal. We were allowed to get out and stand on the tarmac if we wished - which we did. I pulled out my camera and began to take a photo of this new kind of hot and dry country. Almost immediately, there was a very frightening and very large, gun being pointed at me and words spoken which I of course, did not understand. Finally someone suggested I put away my camera - that was the offending activity. Needless to say, I very quickly did as asked and all was well. I have no idea what it was that I should not be trying to photograph but it was the beginning of some very new lessons in the art of survival.

Finally, more or less on time, we arrived at Calcutta airport. Here again, we had to cross the tarmac (this was also before the time of those lovely gizmos that get you right into the terminal). The heat - especially in contrast to what we had left behind us in Toronto was intense though not unbearable. Once we had found our luggage and enquired about transport to our hotel we began the next stage of this amazing journey.

The bus that took us from the airport was, like much of the transport in India at that time, a bit old and a bit ricketty but it worked. Here, as we drove somewhat erratically through the streets of Calcutta we were assailed by a world I could not have imagined. We drove through streets past families who clearly were living on the pavement, past buildings whose poverty I could never have imagined, we inhaled a smell which I found throughout the areas we visited which I now identify as cooking fires (from these same street-dwelling families). There were people everywhere, walking, riding bikes, driving incredibly old cars. There was noise such as I had never experienced before: cries, talking, selling wares, children shouting and animals - mostly mooing. The animals were of course,  cows. These bovines are sacred, cannot be interfered with so they might just stand in the middle of the road until they chose to move. Cars whipped around them, often enough onto the other side of the road into oncoming traffic until they could move more or less back into their lane. The driving was, altogether, breathtakingly dangerous and yet, I gather, not particularly fatal.

Finally, the buildings we passed became a little less poor though many had a rather neglected look. Many were relics of the time of the Raj and simply had not been kept up. Then, as we got close to our hotel we found ourselves on broad boulevards with all the modern shops you might expect to see in any major city. The bus eventually drew up to the Grand Hotel - a hotel which in fact, lived up to its name. It was elegant, old India, even air-conditioned and much appreciated by us. For by now in an amazingly short time, we had been assailed with sights and smells and noises and heat as if we had landed on another planet.

Why you might ask were we staying in the Grand Hotel when we had come to experience the poverty, death, disease and general dark side of India? It had been Mother Teresa’s suggestion because she, rightly, understood that we would not be able to cope if we lived with her.

The time we had in that amazing city was full to the brim with the contrasts of our world: deep unimaginable poverty and suffering and great wealth such as we experienced in our hotel. It was a shock to the system of course but all the better for that because that sadly, is the world we live in isn’t it? Like the story of Lazarus and the rich man in the bible as Lazarus lived against the wall of the rich man’s property and was never even noticed. There were Lazarus’s everywhere we went.

I will not write in detail - I will save that for another time but I want to try to explain the transforming effect of this journey. For the first time in my life I touched a literally awesome combination of desperate suffering and joy. Joy? How could that be? I do not know exactly but I do know that in the midst of the suffering: hunger, disease, lonely death on the streets, abandonment of children - in the midst of that we met amazing human generosity and and care. We met people sharing out of their meagre possessions in order to help another who had less. We met hospitality and kindness. We also from time to time met people who did not like us because we were white. The first time I had ever experienced the kind of prejudice which black people and Indians had faced constantly in our world. What an experience that was and it opened my eyes to yet another human reality that was never any real part of my life experience.

I do not want this to make light of the suffering which is real and horrible but I knew that one of the most transforming parts of this journey was that I learned first hand some of the wonderful goodness of human beings in the face of terrible adversity. This was the beginning of a transformation in myself and in the direction I would take with the remainder of my life. I learned something of what the poor have to give to the rich and about the real richness of life. Time and again we met people whose misery should have crushed them and it did not. It deepened my faith and my hope and made me want to spend the rest of my life trying to find that core of joy.

More about longing

I don't normally want to copy stuff from a book here but I was reading something this morning that spoke about longing and being in a way that made me want to share it here. The long quote that will follow comes from a book called The Quest for the Living God by Elizabeth Johnson. In it she is discussing the work of a wonderful German theologian of the 20th century called Karl Rahner. I hope it won't be too 'dense' to follow. It really is, or so it seems to me, worth pondering. It is about our quest to find meaning, to find answers, never to give up our search for what our life is about, where we are heading and what is driving us. It is at its simplest, it seems to me, about the meaning and power of human curiosity which is part of the very fiber of our human nature.

Here is the excerpt:

Following Rahner's train of thought we started with the [person] who asks a question...In every question we ask, we transcend the immediate point and reach dynamically for something more. Even in the most mundane inquiry we go beyond the matter at hand toward the next thing and the next and ultimately toward...what is infinite...This same pattern can be traced again if we start not with the human mind and its desire to know but with the human will and its experience of freedom. Freedom is not something one has, like a motor in a car. Rather it is being persons present to ourselves ...able to some degree to transcend forces and objects that might predetermine who we are. Freedom [includes] what one is in the worlds of family, community, business, politics, work of all kinds and who one ultimately is in acceptance or refusal of the infinite and mysterious horizon of one's very existence. Here too we experience a never-ending dynamism of desire to seek and receive that propels the spirit forward. Every act by which a person loves another , for example, deepens the ability to give and receive yet more love in a widening circle of relationship which defines who we are. In every aspect, human freedom, like reason ...keeps on transcending beyond everything it grasps.

Once one grasps this pattern of human self-transcendence one sees that this single basic experience is present in a thousand forms. Not only do we curiously question and freely love, but we desire happiness, we know loneliness, we doubt, resist injustice, we plan projects to benefit others, we act responsibly, we remain faithful to conscience under pressure, we are amazed at beauty, we feel guilt, we rejoice, we grieve death, we hope in the future. Undergirding all these personal moments is an immense and driving longing. At root we experience that we are oriented to something more.      Let us not for the moment, say what this 'more' is. It is something like a horizon that opens up the landscape and beckons us onward, encircling our lives though we can never reach it.

Imagination and longing

I have been looking at all the small children who live around here getting ready for Halloween. There must have been parties at school because there were a lot of spooks and goblins and fairies and supermen walking to school on Friday. It was a wonderful procession. And last night, coming home on the streetcar from downtown the car was full of adult versions of pretty much the same thing. I hadn't expected that but I guess they too were going to parties.

I am not sure why adults like to dress up but I get the feeling that for children it is, in some sense part of the journey of discovering who they are or who they might like to be or to be like. It seems to me that children are really able to get into the part that their costume suggests and their imaginations transport them to anywhere and anyone they like. For the adults, I presume it is just fun and there is no real imaginative sense that they are what their costume is. (I say 'presume' because as an adult I have never liked putting on costumes and would do anything I could to avoid it.


But this whole thing about imagination - raised most recently by my great-niece Michal - brought me one step further towards thinking about what part longing also plays in our lives. As children as we live in our imaginations and they have free play, do we long for the things we imagine or long to be the thing we imagine? I think I am making a difference here between wanting and longing. I see longing as a much more powerful emotion. At difficult times in my childhood I can remember longing to be an adult though I know now that my imagination led me to long for an adulthood that was pretty unreal. Oddly too, I do still remember longing to know God and that for me, was a gift that I think is still with me. Those are things that are quite powerful memories for me.

But as adults what part, if any, does real, serious longing play? Do we long to be loved? Do we long to learn to love? Do we long for health or to be different or to be younger or older? Do we long for God even when we don't know what or who we might be longing for?  or ... do we long at all?  

But it also occurs to me as I write this that there is another part to the whole question of longing - if we long for something, do we set out to achieve it or do we just long...? If the latter I suspect it feels pretty futile after a while. So maybe the whole issue of longing also involves being open to the journey to satisfy it. Just as imagination is meant to result in some new depth of creativity, I wonder if longing isn't part of moving forward. 

Simple faith?

This weekend I went to my local Catholic church on Saturday evening and on Sunday to Rosedale United church with my brother and sister-in-law. In both services the reading of the Gospel was the same. Someone asks Jesus (hoping to trip him up perhaps) 'which commandment of the Law is the most important?'( Perhaps expecting a rather complicated, institutional reply). Jesus replies however, that the greatest and first commandment is to love God with all your heart, and mind, and soul. He then goes on to say that there is a  second commandment like that, 'you shall love your neighbor as yourself'. These are the commandments that come from Jesus' Jewish heritage.
   
I was struck first of all by one thing that the Deacon at Saturday's service said. He said that that word 'like' meant that the second commandment was as important as the first; that essentially, to love your neighbor is to love God, or conversely, to love God means to love your neighbor. This is the way we show our love for God. I sometimes think we forget this in our practices of religion. We may think that going to religious services is a sign that we love God or that by saying certain prayers it is a sign that we love God. I guess these may be some kind of reflection of our love but it seems to me that the core of all faiths is, more than anything, meant to be a quite practical living out of the love that God is and has for us. It is, as Doug said next day, meant to be quite simple.

At the Sunday morning service, Doug (who gave one of the best sermons I have ever heard) quoted from a hymn we had just sung. The hymn by Carolyn McDade is called This Ancient Love and, to quote from the sermon's description of the hymn: 'God is a woman who has wrapped her arms around the hills and the sea and the wounded child and she says, as we wrap our healing arms to hold/ what her arms held/ this ancient love, this aching love, rolls on. Doug then pointed out the main themes of the hymn: There is love; it comes from long before us; it is both deep joy and deep pain; and it rolls on.

I loved this sermon in part because it reminded us that God is simple; simple love. There is nothing complicated here. And yet of course, we know that we find real, unselfish loving pretty difficult in the day to day. But the hymn reminds us that God wraps metaphorical healing arms around us and that God's love is an aching love and an ancient love. God's love is not going to leave us any time soon.

As I hear it, both of these sermons tell us that our faith at its heart is simple, uncluttered, free and full of joy and love. We seem to have become so bogged down in the institutions of our faith (religion?) that we may have lost sight of this, the heart of all faiths. 

Celebration

This last weekend was a very special one in my family. It was the Bat Mitzvah of my great-niece Michal and her friend Karuna. I had never attended a Bat Mitzvah before - in part I guess, because it is only fairly recently that Judaism has recognized that girls should have this rite of passage as well as boys. 

We arrived at the place where the ceremony was to take place - a Unitarian Church! This small Reconstructionist community is, I gather, too small to have their own synagogue so they share with the Unitarians. I think this is a marvellous gift of ecumenism. As I understand it, Reconstructionist Judaism is trying to adapt to 21st century people perhaps both in liturgy and in lifestyle. All I can say is that it was a very 'community' gathering, a very welcoming one and a very reverent one. 

This particular day was the Sabbath and also the celebration of Succoth which I think is also called the feast of Tabernacles. So the service was very long - from about 9:30 to just after 1 pm. I can honestly say that there was not a moment when I felt restless and wondering when it was going to end. It was a service rich in joy and thanksgiving and even, mourning. Michal and Karuna (whose name means compassion) each had to chant in Hebrew a passage from the Torah which I imagine was not at all easy. They had been preparing for a year! Then later each had to read a reflection they had written on the passage they had read and leave the congregation with some questions to discuss. Michal had recited the passage where Moses asks to see God and God says no but stand here and I will go by and (basically) you can see my back. Karuna had recited the passage where God writes a second set of tablets after the first had been smashed.

It was interesting to hear what each of the girls made of the passages and the questions that came to them. Michal, if I understand correctly, was raising questions about seeing God or not seeing God, imagination and reality and the role of imagination in faith. (I am not doing her justice I'm afraid). Karuna was sharing some of her own questions about whether she even believed in God and why she continued to the end in this journey to her Bat Mitzvah. After each talk there was a lively and thoughtful discussion from anyone who chose to respond.

Both before and after there were innumerable celebrations and meals and parties and I was deeply moved by the strength and joy of the family life of this small congregation. I was also tremendously impressed by the maturity not only of Michal and Karuna but of the other 13 year olds who were their friends and relatives. If our world is to be in their hands then I feel very much more at peace. It is not that they will be without weakness or difficulty but that they seem to be thoughtful and kind now and one can believe that that will continue into adulthood. 

Transformation

Not surprisingly I still keep thinking of various things that occurred during our recent trip to England. One of the things that keeps coming to mind is something that my niece Susan was adamant that she wanted to do.

A few years ago Susan had gone to London with a friend on their way to a cycling trip in France. While they were in London they visited the small but very special Courtauld gallery. During that visit Susan had seen a relatively unknown still life by Monet which had touched her deeply and which she had never forgotten. So, on this trip she kept saying that this was one thing she really had to do: to see that painting again.

One of the qualities of great art or music or books or poems is that they can touch us at some deep level. They have a quality that is far beyond the superficial.  This kind of touching can be so profound that we do not find it possible to put our experience into words. So, it is not an intellectual experience but a profoundly spiritual one .There is a sense - sometimes an overwhelming one, sometimes a slighter one - that we will never quite be the same because of this experience.

Some people say they have been deeply touched by one particular sunset for instance, or by a view that leads them into another place, or a piece of music that somehow changes everything for them. This experience has, I think, a name: it is called transformation. Have you ever gone to the theater and been so carried into what is happening there that you know it has in some inarticulate way, changed you? That is an experience of transformation. It is, as I mentioned, not an intellectual experience - it is something much, much deeper and more permanent and it is, I believe, a gift.

I don't know whether Susan found her second viewing of the painting as powerful as the first - perhaps not, because often it is a single moment that happens, never to recur.  I believe we all have had such moments in our lives and I think such experiences are moments to treasure because we are touching that within us that is life-giving.

Time

While I was away in the UK last month I was so very aware of several friends who had become ill before I left and whose illnesses had come as a sort of a shock. Naturally, they became part of my daily prayer so they were never, ever far from my mind. But I also realised that the increasing number of people I know who are suffering illness in some way provides an ever more insistent reminder of the passing of years and the amazing fragility of life.

As I pondered this I was trying to think why the awareness of it increases  more each time. In passing, I notice now that the subject of health occupies an awful lot of the conversation of many people I know. That didn't used to be the case of course, because when we were young and strong, doctors and health received relatively little attention. Having said that, I do get a sense that in the 30 years I was away, out of circulation as it were, the subject of health even for young people seems to be of more interest. What vitamins do you take? what do you or don't you eat? what exercise do you get? There are huge numbers of ads on TV related to health as well. What is this about? Does it mean even younger people are feeling more vulnerable?

But getting back to people in my age bracket I do understand that the sense of increasing vulnerability is very realistic. In the middle 70's and beyond you know absolutely that life is coming to a close and as you see around you so many friends with canes or walkers or pacemakers or wheelchairs or whatever, you know that time has something of a different quality. I would call it a quality of preciousness - others of course may see it quite differently. I see time is becoming infinitely more precious and infinitely less infinite!!! As a for-instance, I read about things in the paper that the city is planning for the year 2020 and I think, realistically I believe, that the odds are I may not be alive for that. Whereas, not long ago ( so it seems) it would never have occurred to me that I would not be around.

Time is of course, hugely mysterious. I once tried to read Stephen Hawkings book 'A brief history of time' and understood not a word. But all the same, time is what we live our lives in. Think of all the generations who came before us - where have they gone? There was a time when they lived just as we do - youth, middle age, old age - and then, what???? It is awesome and mysterious and I think, a gift.


So, is this too depressing? I hope not. For whatever reason death is an absolute given for every single one of us. And life has no guarantees of length or quality or goodness. But I do find now, in older age that as each day unfolds the minutes and hours become more of a gift to me, they are more precious and I am grateful for that. I really am learning that I don't need to waste time worrying about tomorrow because I have just this moment that I am sure of and that is okay. 

Home now.

Well, we arrived home safely the day before yesterday - both glad I think, to be back after a very busy and lovely visit to the UK.

I need not have been apprehensive about my visits to the monasteries where the sisters I had parted from 3 years ago were now living. The welcome I received moved me very much; it was warm and full of loving friendship and care. Also, one of the things I had not so much anticipated was that these visits enabled me to see other sisters whom I knew well and to share with them why it was that I felt I needed to leave my religious life. Most would have heard only second-hand and now at least, there was the possibility for them to ask questions if they wished or to engage in dialogue. It was for me altogether very healing and I am grateful. Not so many years ago leaving religious life was something done in secret without the opportunity to say goodbye - I am so grateful for the change and for the huge loving generosity of my sisters.

One of the things I also did was to turn up on the doorstep of the old monastery to visit the new owner and to see if we could look around the grounds at least. Here again though, we were given a lovely welcome and a tour inside and out.  It seems still to be a work in progress but it is so good to see what James and Tracey are choosing to do with the space and how lovingly everything is being undertaken. There are big changes but just the sorts of ones you would expect in returning the building to a private home. I was so grateful to see how beautifully it is being created anew, though of course memories came rushing back as each new space reminded me of a life and lives that had been lived there in such a different way. 

I think I have heard it said that old houses may have many memories somehow stored in their walls and I feel that might be especially true of this one. It is 126 years old and for only 27 of those was it a monastery. Otherwise it has always been a family house - the principal one of the village.  Still, I do feel that those 27 years infused the house with a very special gift of prayer and faithful human living that focused that 'space' on God . So I pray that James and Tracey and their family will imbibe that special gift and live happily and safely in it. 


Finally, I want to say what a joy it was to have this time with my niece Susan. She was a very attentive and generous companion. This was, in so many ways, my trip, into territory she did not know. She came without complaint and while I was visiting with the sisters she was left to her own resources, often in rather isolated rural areas. However, she also shared in some most unusual monastic experiences - things that most people would not see, so perhaps that will be a special memory for her. I am truly grateful to her.





 

Anticipation in the journey

Most people I know think that anticipation is a huge part of our journeys. We seem to do an awful lot of looking forward to things - events, trips, visits - at least I do. I sometimes then wonder if at these times I live more in the future than in the right now. If that is so, then for sure I think I miss a great deal that is the only reality there is - now, this minute.

I am thinking about this because of my much anticipated trip to the UK on Monday. I have been 'looking forward' to it for a long time. It will, I think, be my last trip there in part because I don't so much enjoy lifting big, heavy  suitcases all over everywhere any more and in part because I won't have the money. But there is also a certain sense of anxiety (I'm not quite sure if that is the right word but it will do) because I will see most of the sisters I left behind when our monastery closed and I am not sure how and on what terms, we will now relate. I think things will be okay but I am a bit apprehensive (maybe that is the word I want). We will see.

I do want to see the sisters because they were so much a part of my life over the thirty years of my religious life. I want to hear from them that they are at peace and indeed, happy. I want to see their faces and read there what I can of their well-being. We will see.

This trip is different though because I am going with my niece whom I am just getting to know again after all the years of absence. So there is some of the stuff that tourists do that I have not done for many, many years. We will see.

What I want to do more than anything though is just to live each moment. I hope to enjoy everything but to be here, now and not be thinking: what will we do this afternoon, what about the visit planned for tomorrow. I don't want to 'waste' a minute in that sense at least - (I do rather think there are a number of really good ways to 'waste' time but not by not living in the present). We will see.

Back to the blog at the end of the month I hope.

The end of the journey in cemeteries....

This morning I went walking in a nearby cemetery. I think the oldest stone is from the mid-eighteen hundreds and it is one of my favourite places to walk. Apart from the wonderful,very old and big trees, it seems to me to be full of lives lived as part of the history of our city.

I was looking for a particular stone: that of my landlords' mother who had owned the condo I now live in. One of her sons had shown me a photo of the new stone they had placed there. I believe that her life is part of my life now because I live where she lived. Perhaps something of her spirit remains - I don't know. I like to think of connections like that because it seems to me we are not just here, now, but part of a stream of humanity each of whom was a unique, identifiable person. I did find her stone and discovered too, that she was my age. I liked that. I wonder if there is anything else common to our journey?

One of the other things I noticed in the cemetery that I hadn't before - or hadn't thought about before, was how people are identified on their gravestones. By far the majority of people are identified in terms of family. Women are wives, daughters; men are husbands, sons though by far the majority are spoken of in marital terms ( Harry beloved husband of... Mabel beloved wife of...). Why is that what we put on our gravestones? Is that the most important indication of who we are?

Interestingly, in the military section there are no parents or wives or husbands at all. There are roles (gunner, aircraftsman) and ranks (private, sergeant) and regiment, year killed or died (because some are in the military section who died after the wars) and age. I can remember too, that in our monastic cemeteries the identification was by year of profession, number of years in monastic life, year of death with no mention of blood family.  I wonder if there are other circumstances that change this relative importance of one's family status? Clearly, the military or religious life have taken precedence over blood family... or so it seems to me.

Of course the saddest parts of any cemetery are the graves of children - always a reminder both of the uncertainty of life ( we have no guarantee of life) and also a reminder of the suffering of families when a small child dies too soon - most often suddenly. It is often clear by the dates on the stones that there was an epidemic of some sort that took a lot of folks prematurely - again, the fragility of our lives. 


I recall too a small cemetery in Cornwall, England where there were so many stones of people who died young. They had died at sea in an age when boats powered by sail alone were pathetically vulnerable to the sea's whims. They too told their own story.


Anyway, it is all a reminder to me of the journey of each precious human being who has come before, whose life has touched mine. I hope that mine will do that too.

 

Silence along the journey

Once again, my 'friends' who come to the streetcar stop across the road and the folks I see in the park  are supplying me with a question for the journey: why do so many of us walk or jog with our ears plugged up with, I presume, music? My sub question is: is this music (or whatever it may be)intended to keep out the world or to keep out the thoughts in our heads or perhaps, both? 

Of course, I guess there is a third option and that is that people like music but if so, why on the street or in the park where there are other beautiful sounds to listen to?

I am guessing that since we live in an age of noise silence is a problem for lots of people. When I entered the monastery so many years ago I was confronted, of course, with many new and difficult things. But the most powerful confrontation was with the silence. Talk was kept at an absolute minimum, there was no radio or TV or music played (except occasionally at special times) and there were at least 2 solid hours of private prayer when one was alone with oneself and God. It was a profound and at first, distressing silence.

One of the first things I think we all faced was the coming to awareness of the stuff in our heads that we had pushed down, out of earshot as it were. This was stuff that maybe wasn't very pleasant (experiences of the past, realities of personal behavior, fears, angers and I guess the list could go on). Suddenly, in the silence it was there and there was no place to run: no earphones to fill the silence, no TV to get lost in, no pub to drown in. There were people there to help at this time, but it was the silence that brought this to the surface of awareness and it was hard. It was in those beginning months that many people left. In time though, the silence became rich and healing and beautiful.

So I guess I wonder if the people I see are really trying both to separate themselves in some way from human demands - even the demand of the other's presence - and also to avoid what is in the heart and the head. I can really understand that but I think by drowning out the silence we are missing a great gift. 

Random thoughts of journey happenings

'Hurry! Hurry! Hurry! you don't want to be the last!'. This, called out by the one of the adults to a group of very young children at the beach today. I can also remember that being said to me or to my friends - is it something that is always said to groups of children. But today I thought for the first time, ' what is wrong with being the last?'

Why, I wondered, do we think it important not to be the last? In this particular case little Ollie (as I discovered his name to be) was doing his own thing and that included not keeping up. I rather liked the look of Ollie - maybe that is why I asked myself the question. But I think too of my friends in L'Arche. Many of them tend to be the last or somewhere near and many of them are among the most interesting and caring people I know - perhaps because they are not so focused on keeping up?

That's all.

The other thought about little random things that are part of the journey also happened this morning. Across the street where the construction site is there was, suddenly, a lot of activity. This activity included several fire engines, a couple of police cruisers, yellow tape around the whole block - not just the construction site. No ambulance so presumably it wasn't someone who was hurt. But it was most certainly an out-of-the-ordinary occurrence and gained, needless to say a lot of attention. 

So it made me think of that very phrase about things that are 'out-of-the-ordinary'. These are things that are not what we expect, they may be a bit mysterious because we don't understand what is happening, they may be a bit shocking but it seems that the important thing is, we notice them because they are unexpected, different. Which implies a sense that we all have of 'the ordinary' which mostly fills our day and is, for the most part, the stuff of our time on earth. 

I wondered, if we paid more attention to 'the ordinary',  would we start to see in it too, more things that are extraordinary, out of the ordinary? I am going to try to look more carefully from now on.

What are the limits?

Yesterday I listened to a rerun of the CBC Radio 1 program: White Coat, Black Arts with Dr Brian Goldman. His interview was with a man who has Huntington's disease and who has chosen to determine for himself when he will die.

Huntington's disease is as far as I understand it, an inherited disease and it's progress (if that is an apt word) is inexorable and the dying is horrible: the whole body and mind is, essentially, destroyed. This man's father had the same disease and the family lived through it with him, watching him suffer in ways 'you would not wish any living being to do'. So, when Nagy (I think that was his name) discovered that he too had the disease he made a decision that when the time came he would kill himself rather than inflict his suffering on his family or, indeed, himself.

Nagy discussed this with his wife, his doctor, his neurologist , his lawyer and some others so that it would be absolutely clear that this was his decision made in full understanding and that no one would have enabled him or assisted him. The reason he did this is that on the one hand, as I understand it, it is not illegal to commit suicide but it is illegal to help someone to do it.

It was clear that Dr Goldman was very conflicted about this decision as he discussed the interview he had had with Nagy. And yet, to listen to Nagy was to listen to someone who had an absolute and peaceful certainty that this was what he needed to do. Dr Goldman's conflict was, I suppose, what the majority of people might feel: is it right to deliberately and clear-sightedly take one's own life even in the face of awful and untreatable suffering? His neurologist said she felt that all she could do was to listen and to respect his decision. She would not make a recommendation to him except to let him know what treatment options she could offer.


I found myself deeply touched by this interview. I guess as a Catholic I should not support what he wants to do. I should say that to take our own life is not in our control; that somehow the suffering will bear good fruit. That God gives and God takes away - and only God. But...


I can't help thinking about the distinctions we make all the time: we allow millions of people to die of starvation even when we could help; we kill people in war; we fail to make sure that millions of people have what they need for a decent life. So I found myself asking as I listened: how is it then wrong to ask someone who will die soon and whose quality of life is unacceptable by any human standard, who will suffer unbearably, to choose her or his own time to die?   I don't know the answer but I think we need to ponder it more and more thoughtfully and carefully and lovingly.

Pondering Jerusalem

This morning looking out my window I watched a flock of maybe 20 sparrows, I think they were, fighting over a piece of pizza crust that was lying on the road. Each one would get close and try to drag the piece away but it was too big and unwieldy and someone else would come and snatch it up. This went on for maybe 15 minutes before they gave up and went away. It was sad to me because I felt that if they would stop snatching then everyone might have got enough to please them.

After that I picked up one of the books I am currently reading: A History of Jerusalem by Karen Armstrong. It seems a well-researched and thoughtful book and, so far as I am able to tell, not particularly biased. And that issue of bias seems especially appropriate in speaking about the history of this particular city.

Almost from the very beginning, starting with Jews, then in time, Christians and then, finally the Muslims, the city has been considered to be a SACRED city. Each of the three religions at various times, claimed it as THEIR sacred city and usually, in the process, attempted to wipe out the shrines, temples and sacred memories of the others. 

It seems there has hardly ever been a time of peace there. Without courageous leadership - or so it seems to me - the city's inhabitants continually fought over their scraps of pizza - or the religious equivalent, and so no one very often, called them to try to live with one another and respect one another's gifts of spiritual insight. Everyone had to be right and therefore had to attempt the complete annihilation of the other. So much for sacred.

This book certainly helps me to understand the current state of tension in the city and the fighting over who should 'control' it. It is also quite discouraging because it is hard to see how it gets resolved when the hostilities are so deep and so long-standing. But I do believe that if there were courageous leaders who could stand up for attempting peace, there might be hope.

Happiness as part of the journey

Some time ago I asked a friend, who had had quite a lot of upheaval in her life, if she was happy. I think I was thinking fairly concretely as in, happy in your new situation. And she did reply. She said, "I guess so. It's really difficult to answer. I mean are you HAPPY? or just living life where God or circumstance have put you (so to say)?...there may be peace , there may not be actual happiness...". 

She then went on to say " I look around me at friends of my age and ask are they HAPPY?" Finally, she said "Happiness is a different concept when one is old than when one is young I think. Often blocks to happiness come from within oneself and in that regard I think/feel I am not living my [life] to the fullest that I am capable of."

I found her answers thought-provoking. But also, her question: "Are you HAPPY?" made me ponder. Some of the upheavals in my life would put this question to the test I think but here was my answer.

Yes, I am happy. But it isn't because I am here or not there for instance. That is to say, my happiness is not situational; it isn't dependent upon where I am or who I am with except at a fairly superficial level. I am genuinely happy because I feel that my life , however difficult it has been, has been blessed and held and I am filled with gratitude. And I believe that gratitude is at the bottom of all happiness. 

I have always felt too, that I am free - not in the sense of not having obligations, or of being able to do what I want - but free to choose. Even when I have been in situations where someone else has made decisions that profoundly and perhaps adversely, affected my life, I have felt free to choose to accept these or not. I can always reject what I do not positively choose. So in the end, I have a kind of control because I choose what I can and will do in given situations. If that is so, then I cannot, for instance, be a victim.

Obviously, there are times when the choices facing anyone are decisions between bad and worse but even then, I can choose to accept that that is as it is and get on with it, working all the time towards more positive change. I wonder if this sounds simplistic but if it does, I can't think of anything else that can account for my happiness. It has taken a very long time though.

Words and their power

I sometimes wonder if we take the power of the words we use seriously enough.  When I say 'power' I mean, mostly, that I believe the  words we use affect the very essence of how we perceive the world in which we live and therefore affect all our relationships and activities. Here, my particular interest has to do with the use of gender specific words.

Take for instance, the Hebrew and Christian scriptures we know of as the Bible. In those scriptures the almost total use of masculine words for God has left us with an image of God that has permeated our psyches. God can only be male (even though most people know that God is neither male nor female ). In a very real sense this apparently unquestioned (until relatively recently) attribution has had the effect of making male the standard for human perfection. 

One modern(ish) biblical scholar (Elisabeth Schussler-Fiorenza) points this out very succinctly when she says, For the western understanding and linguistic expression of reality, male existence is the standard of human existence. 

She later says, The issue of androcentric language has received much attention in the past several years. The biblical texts as they are read by individuals or heard in the liturgy of the church perpetuate the male bias and exclusiveness of our own culture and language.

That is just a taste of what I mean about the power of words. In this instance I am using the Bible as an example because it has influenced western human history more profoundly than any other book. But if you think we now live in a society in which women are equals of men and that this kind of use of language is now history maybe it is worth pondering further.  

Look how often 'exclusive' language is used in the books, magazines and newspapers you read. Some people say of course, that 'he', 'brother', and especially, 'men' refer equally to both men and women so what's the problem? Do they? Why should they? Does the use of such exclusive language for the standard of humanity not subtly affect our perceptions of women?

If we think women are now equally well valued in our society take a look sometime at how many women are found on the special obituary pages of newspapers - take a survey over a week. There are probably 5 or 6 men to every woman and the women are often referred to because they were somebody's wife. Or, how often are articles and photographs of women sexualised or trivialized? ( I took a little survey of the Huffington Post and almost the only time the activities of Michelle Obama were mentioned, the reference was to what she wore).

This perhaps sounds too much like a rant, but just think about our young women and what they are taught to value in themselves and ask yourself: is this the best we can do for them?