Dreamtime - a migration inward, an inward migration

The Dreamtime is a commonly used phrase to describe the spiritual beliefs and experiences of the Australian aboriginal people. It speaks of their connection with the beginning and with creation. It imagines and takes the people back to a time past. In the beginning, in the Dreamtime, they are given their identity in the universe and their place. The poetry and stories of the Dreamtime have become increasingly mournful and wistful as these people have been displaced and their identity as a group distorted.

In Kath Walker's poem of 1970, read first on the steps of Parliament House in Canberra, she says:

Oh spirits from the unhappy past,
Hear us now.
We come, not to disturb your rest.
We come to mourn your passing.
You, who paid the price,
When the invaders spilt our blood.
Your present generation comes,
Seeking strength and wisdom in your memory.
The legends tell us,
When our race dies,
So too, dies the land.
May your spirits go with us
From this place.

This is the voice of longing and loss and much like the rhythm of the contemporary mystic.  We cry out in earnest for refreshment and a return to the naivete of our salvation.  The Spirit within is the greatest gift allowing us to 'travel' in another dimension and find our identity in Christ and our assignment on earth. Our Dreamtime.

This inward place is where we work with our own thoughts—our own sovereignty of mind, our own sovereignty of imagination—and where we keep our own knowledge safe. This is where we fashion, and refashion, and imagine the stories we want told, where we catch the essence of a story before it drifts away, or before it is overrun by the power of those other stories, created by the score in this country, to distract our thinking. In the inward place, we can speak the truth more easily, and often with humour, because of the ease we feel being in the family home of traditional country. This is also where we flourish by making new stories: bringing new sagas of the "all times" into our world and also dealing with the stories of consolation, redemption, and reckoning. Alexis Wright[1]

Imagine placing you and the Holy Spirit in the text above. Like a holy conversation and a holy cookout mixing the past and the present and the future. Conjuring up a new knowing of God and shutting off misconceptions and dreaming of God entering 'country' as Jesus and now as Emmanuel – God with us.

Our place of contemplation is not so much answering our big life questions but instead pondering them, as the word itself suggests. Considering God and me across time. Not needing answers.

[1]

https://emergencemagazine.org/story/the-inward-migration-in-apocalyptic-times/

The same, yesterday, today and tomorrow?

“O Shepherd. You said you would make my feet like hinds' feet and set me upon High Places". Hinds Feet on High Places - Hannah Hurnard

I suspect when it comes to faith matters there are often ‘use by’ dates attached to spiritual revelations. The writer of Hebrews 13:8 tells that it is Jesus who stays the same - yesterday, today and forever. For us mere mortals, it is change that signposts our maturity. If we are indeed to aim for hinds feet on high places, then we need to be alert when it is time to jump to the next level. If I did this faith journey all over again, I would strive to be more nimble and ready for change. To try new things out. We get comfortable with our latest religious thinking platforms on healing or care or prayer. Move baby, move says the holy spirit. Movement and adjusting our thinking keeps the faith juices flowing and helps us avoid sitting like lazy goats ‘under’ the teaching of some guru and not following our individual call.

Ripe

Blundstones with 

Bourbon and a dash of bitters 

The leather sucked it up 

Greedy boots 

We are all avocados

Some are ready and willing when you open them up

Spreadable 

Other need a moment

Time to soften

Persea gratissima

Blundstones are pre-softened

Just for you

Ready to wear

Leather gratissima 

Today I ran 

It wasn’t about the running 

Or even the breath it was about the wind

Against the wind

It worked 

Post Malone

And his circles 

Didn’t hurt either 

Practise Your Wow

Practice your wow and not your but.

When writing in a pandemic, one has to be aware that one is writing in a pandemic. Rather like when on vacation in Maui or Bali, or Tahiti one needs to remember at all times, 'these are just vacation thoughts'. THIS IS NOT THE REAL WORLD, thus avoiding the linked maladies of holiday romances whilst in a food and alcohol coma. Developing our social intelligence allows us to be in the moment whilst knowing that this is just a moment.

I love a good discussion. Perhaps that is the greatest void in this season of limited social connection. I am watching discussions on the screen. I am listening to way too many discussions through my earphones.

But I am thirsting for face to face chats. You remember the ones where you could see the subtilities of a smirk, the swish of a hand, the twinkle of the real-life eye. I'd even venture into a Board Room. Gate crash a prayer group. Be seen at a Starbucks (that's for the coffee snobs) Anywhere and with anyone. I'm tired of walking with people.  In my pre-COVID life, I preferred to walk alone, only accompanied by Tippett, Gross or Swisher's pod-voices.

The discussion was already under an attack before all this happened. Before Trump. Before COVID.

We now have to be ultra-careful about what we say lest it is deciphered in an unfavourable light by the ruling thoughtsters. After all, it is the season of hyperpartisanship. Heidi Klum's mantra ‘

you are either in, or you are out' rings loud in my ears. Oh, and if I had a penny for every time I've given the 'shrewd as snakes and gentle as doves' pastoral advice lately.

Malcolm Gladwell says being interesting is the most critical tool for a writer. I find that it is one of the things that most attracts me to people. But we live in a world that is beginning to value tidy thoughts, linear thoughts, acceptable thoughts. It looks like the thought police might deprive me of such an essential part of life's journey. Interesting is getting harder to find.

Gladwell explains further that he loves to work out puzzles. He doesn't want everything worked out for him. I don't want to watch people doing the jigsaw puzzle; that would be boring. I am interested in doing this life puzzle with others – learning from their narrative and using it to create my own.

A teleprompter society will become boring. A community where stories can be told and those stories will be varied and colourful. And, if we are all made in the image of God, it follows that a Christian environment surely should be very colourful and very varied.

Gladwell says that to tell someone a story is taking a risk, and we need to practice our 'wow' response in the face of someone taking that chance. He says the 'wow' this is the greatest encouragement. We  slowly shut down in the face of constant disinterest by others.  What is even worse, is a continual response of 'but' or 'let me give you some feedback’. Feedback means criticism, by the way.  Perhaps the image of someone scrolling on a device while you are talking is something we have got used to but is a poison to the art of discussion.  Especially in these times of polarization, we don't know how people will react to our conversation – will they pick up on my bias, on my dumbness, on my doubt? The mask makes it even more challenging to read the response.  To have someone engage in my doubt, despite my bias and sidestep, my ignorance is pure friendship and builds our trust for the other. I'm scared that even in this time where story and personal narrative are social media royalty, we will pick and choose what stories are allowed to be heard.

Be interested. Practice your 'wow' and not your 'but'. And please, answer my 'hello' with something. Anything.

The Passing of the Bonnet

It is rare for me to remember exactly where I was when I first met a friend – especially a brief conversation serving as our introduction nearly 30 years ago. I have relocated often enough for the memory of specific places and events to become somewhat hazy. Ah, but friendships and those born out of generosity and delight are to be treasured and commemorated. Such is this friendship.

I remember laying eyes on baby Sophie in her pram at the back of a church auditorium after the Sunday service on a February morning in 1992. I introduced myself to her mother, Nerida, as I admired the little miss with her angelic face framed by a beautiful hand-made bonnet. That was the beginning of a life-long friendship with the Cottrell clan. A few weeks later, Nerida approached me bearing a gift – a replica bonnet for my awaited child. I was seven months pregnant with my 3rd. The bonnet was crafted by Kath Pitman, Nerida’s mum and Sophie’s grandmother.

Tomorrow – 29 years later – that dear little babe is to be dressed up and walked down the aisle to marry the love of her life. She has inherited the grace and countenance of her mother.

Sophie, your family, has passed on more than bonnets. It is an extravagant love that is the currency of the Cottrells. Wesley is fortunate and astute enough to have discovered a rare treasure in you.  We wish you all the happiness in the world.

And I make a promise of a ‘bonnet passing’ of my own on the event of the birth of your first child —possibly not hand-made like Nina’s, but it will serve to honour the long tradition of love gifts and friendship continued throughout the generations.

Congratulations, Sophie and Wes.

Cultivate

I’m tending to my plants this month. They all need a different sort of care.

I placed my big Money Tree outside too early in the spring and have brought it back inside to nurse back to health after it’s leaves began to fall in the shock of the overnight cold. I have a baby Money Tree, a new acquaintance, that is repotted and limping along. Sage seeds in three small terracotta pots need twice daily spray with water to keep them moist. Others demand less attention and seem to thrive even if neglected.

These are my plants.

Like friends - I must tend to them and give them what they need, in all seasons, if I want my community of love to thrive.

Friends

I helped a friend move last weekend. She was moving from her cute little basement suite to a 2-bedroom in the same neighbourhood. We were slightly on the naughty side of the Provincial COVID recommendations for only meeting up within our bubble. But what can you do.

We were a group of six adults. Friends. Some helped with the big pieces of furniture and the driving, and some tackled the difficult job of accounting for the remnants. The dustbuster, the tasselled wallhanging, the plates and cups left on the dishrack. The dishrack. These were thrown together in a big black garbage bag. Soon it was done. I stayed back with one of the women to clean. We regretted not bringing a speaker to listen to music. But we were both enjoying the cleaning vibe.

'Have a look at the fridge' says H displaying her work. It looked great.

I can't quite get the stains off the bath. It's an old tub badly in need of a reno.

We walked to the new place with our broom and wastebasket and bits and pieces, stopping at a liquor store en route to buy champers and beer.

We sat around afterwards drinking out of strange mugs that we found on the top of a packing box. Someone had brought home-made banana bread, which tasted great paired with the Portuguese bubbly.

It was a very ordinary move — friends helping a mate on the weekend. Drinks to celebrate when the work is done. But it was so NOT ordinary. It was the best day I had in months. 

I felt so blessed to be a part of this scene. We sat apart from each other in the front room and admired the new home. It is a beautiful space in a good location. She will be happy there. This time was a real treat. I didn't want it to end.

I overstayed. My friend was probably itching to start unpacking or at least make up her bed for her first night in a new home.  We stood on the back porch and knew that this would become her favourite place. We imagined adding planter boxes and pot plants making it feel very relaxing. There was a spot for a small veggie patch.

 I didn't look at my phone all day. None of us did. We were screenless for at least 5 hours. And it felt good.

I suddenly realized what I had been missing for the past 12 months. Not travel. Not concerts. Not restaurants. Just this. Friends.

I couldn't sleep that night. Most likely a mix of heightened emotions and the beer.

God Politic

I was thirsty, and you constructed me a dam

I was starving, and you brought me new farming techniques

I was oppressed by society’s structure, and you spent yourself in law, politic, economics to reconstruct society.

I was ignorant, and you strove to establish a school system; my culture was different from yours, and you respected it; I was your enemy, and you sought to understand me

Matthew Fox  Listening (Winter 1966)

Linger

 “We also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance, and in that waiting, a new character in community; and in community, solidarity and hope for 2021 and beyond.”  Romans 5:4

We are all somewhere (or everywhere) on Paul’s spectrum. Suffering. Persevering. Building character. Hoping.

In these present times, it is a struggle to fulfill the basic tenets of hospitality. We are falling short of our core principles of generous invitation, warm and caring personal contact, and the simple benefits of sharing a meal around a table. Attention to protocols is necessary, but we recognize the compromise — our connection to each other is endangered. Maybe in this present suffering, this persevering, we can fine-tune our community character. At Soulkitchen, our original mission was to befriend the most vulnerable and the lonely, first in Australia and now, here in Vancouver; building resilient communities because of good relationships — food, simply used as a tool to that end. We had to dig deep and be creative to find our way in 2020.

Read the full article here A Season to Linger | Union Gospel Mission (ugm.ca)

Bare and Beautiful

I noticed a tree on my walk today, displaying six giant Christmas balls hanging from its bare branches. It is late January here, and the Christmas decorations should be long gone. The balls adorned an ugly tree in the front garden of a rather house grisly house on a gloomy, grey day. They looked ridiculously beautiful. Perhaps that same tree will be a wonderful addition to the garden in the spring and summer. It will make the old house come alive with its greenery and shade. But for the moment, the madly coloured balls in silver and gold and red are the only things that give the plot its gucci.

Our faith allows us to be adorned for all seasons —fake balls when we are bare. Dormant. The generosity of fig leaves that hide our shame and inertia.  The rich greenery signalling times of flourishing and thriving. I am thankful for this faith screen of grace that allows for the good and bad seasons.

 We are beautiful when we have nothing new to share or learn.

Beautiful when we are going nowhere.

Beautiful when all our tricks and toys are packed away, and we have nothing to give.

And then, beautiful in our gowns of revelation and deep love.

We must learn the self-love of every look.

Worthy as we go out and come back in. I find peace in that.

Contemplation or My Spiritual Sudoku

"Religion is like a swimming pool - all the noise is at the shallow end." theologian William H. Vanstone (1923-1999)

I’m denominationally single at the moment - I’ve been dating the Mennonites for a few years, but it’s nothing serious. My first love was the Catholic church.  In my late 20s, I was swept off my feet by those passionate Pentecostals. Twenty years later, a little jaded, I took the side exit with Brian McClaren and the Emergents.

After endless rounds of church ‘water sports’ in a crowded shallow end, I retired from my team   —exhausted. For a few years, I wanted to be left alone to swim out in the deep where it is quiet and uncrowded. I needed time to think - I've been thinking for the past ten years.

So, I’ve decided to call myself a contemplative for the time being. My apologies to those of you who have been dedicated travellers in this lane for decades. You who have profited from 14-day silent retreats, the centering prayer movement, Ignatian spirituality and such.  I've admired you from afar.  I am an imposter, but I know nowhere else to lay my weary spiritual body. It beckons me to rest, reflect and weigh up all that I know… and all that I don’t. It’s a perfect place to be.

I enjoyed writer Parker Palmer’s suggestion in his latest book ‘On the Brink of Everything’ to find a spiritual place that nurtures ‘the gift of bafflement’ rather than the prison of our religious absolutes. I have learnt to be content with mystery; to live in the places that are foggy and undefined – joining those baffled and confused ones.

This style of practice causes me to renew the way I live out my faith. I cycle through periods of stopping, resting and thinking and then return to activity. The Ignatians call it ‘Contemplation in Action’ –  thinking that seeks closeness to God. Resulting in right and loving actions.  Thomas Merton, one of my champions, would be happy that contemplation and meditation are in vogue!  Both are just devotion and prayer dressed up for our times.

We live in times filled with complicated issues, and the weight of our words is increasingly burdensome.  Contemplation relieves that pressure by allowing time to have a good think – a healthy dialogue with God - a place to relax and ask the questions that may be too bold or even too wild to declare out loud.

When I'm stressed, my rather nerdish form of relaxation is to complete a Sudoku or a crossword. I find both so soothing and calming. Likewise, contemplation or meditation allows time to sit quietly and play a game of spiritual Sudoku thoughtfully and quietly trying to find the pieces that will connect me with that elusive peace and understanding - cracking the spiritual code.

We have been warned from an early age to avoid diving into shallow water. Thie risk of injury is high. So take some time to walk up to the deep, find a spot where only you and the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob dwell. Take a deep breath and dive in headfirst. That is the act of holy contemplation.

There is Another Voice

First light 

Covered by noisy blether 

Whispered defeat

Coaxing shy despair

With deceit

Take THIS pill

Swallow

wait 

Numb head

But there is another voice

Aroused from sunny sleep

To punch the darkness 

Slap the sadness 

Goodness named by God 

Wrapped in me

Alive, say, to rise again 

---

Mother Mary

Passing by this store window in my neighbourhood today reminded me of another mary memorabilia…..

It was a statue, a gift from my quirky Godmother on the occasion of my first baptism. She stood about as high as a school ruler and fairly shone, so perfect was the porcelain.

Like the original Virgin, she had a hard life.  She lived in the back of my linen cupboard for at least 30 years. Incarcerated through no fault of her own. A product of religious discrimination. Mine.

Periodically, I would catch a  glimpse of her when we hosted houseguests and all the sheets and towels were in use. Mary lay recumbent against the blue and white chequered liner fittingly matching that flowing white gown with the blue veil.

Our eyes would meet.  

"Sorry, I know you don't deserve to be here. You are just part of the collateral damage of a faith switch.  My new Evangelical friends wouldn't understand.  And I've got my kids to consider. They'd be confused. You, a worthless idol? Right?

Deep down, I knew Mary didn't deserve this life in the dark.   

But how could I release her from this prison of linen?

Advent would prove to be the perfect time for the heist.

 My niece, Grace, invited me to her Confirmation – her Roman Catholic confirmation. Mary came out.

 I freed her that day. She went to a good home. A family that would place her in a glass display cabinet where she could show off that sheen and that beautiful smile.  

 It wasn't easy letting go; despite everything. She's free now. I'm so sorry.

May this be a season of letting go of things in the dark—even a season of rediscovery and re-gifting.

To Love

“To be commanded to love God at all, let alone in the wilderness, is like being commanded to be well when we are sick, to sing for joy when we are dying of thirst, to run when our legs are broken, But this is the first and great commandment nonetheless. Even in the wilderness - especially in the wilderness- you shall love him. ”

— A Room Called Remember Frederick Buechner

Masked

It doesn't seem long ago that we were arguing and sorting out global policies on face coverings. Could a security guard have her face covered? What happens with someone in full hijab goes through customs at the airport?

What a difference a pandemic makes – now we are all using face covering. Now we are insisting on it and not just tolerating it.

I wonder what our Muslim sisters think now –  Vindicated? Accepted?

The discrepancies are particularly true in the European Union where laws informally known at 'burqa bans' that essentially forbid any face covering that hides identity – on the basis of public safety – are now questionable. In 2020, a person in some European countries could be banned for not wearing a face covering and equally at risk of penalty if they do wear the full burka—both in the name of public safety.

No wonder the bible turns us towards the heart as the eye to the soul. Our image-makers and breakers must be careful about what we allow and disallow. It just demonstrates the complexity of life.

Heaven help us!

Live it

How then do we teach our children and pass on a faith we are still working out?

- Allow curiosity

- Listen

- Don’t dispense false hope 

- Be real