Let There Be Light

I read a blog called 'Spiritual Travels.' It combines several things that I'm interested in: spirituality, travel and history. This week Lori, the blog's author, published a post on light using a poem by Hafiz to beautifully illustrate her subject. Light resonated in me as during the past week, I traveled to Provence and experienced light in various ways. Most notably, here in the Abbaye Notre Dame de Senanque monastery where light was used to not only illuminate the monks' living quarters, but also to cast a spiritual light on elements of worship within the ancient church itself. Narrow on the outside, these many windows lining the walls on both sides of the monks' dormitory are splayed outward on the  inside to catch and diffuse as much light as possible. Hear what Hafiz says about light...

GOD POURS LIGHT

God
pours light
into every cup,
quenching darkness.

The proudly pious
stuff their cups with parchment
and critique the taste of ink

while God pours light

and the trees lift their limbs
without worry of redemption,
every blossom a chalice.

Hafiz, seduce those withered souls
with words that wet their parched lips

as light
pours like rain
into every empty cup
set adrift on the Infinite Ocean.

~ Hafiz ~

(Interpretive version of Ghazal 11 by Jose Orez

 Lori's post and Hafiz's poem remind me to open and let God pour His light into me. Even small cracks and narrow openings will flood my soul and bathe me in God's lovely light.

For more photos and information about this Cistercian monastery, click here to go to Melanged Magic.

Untie the Strong Woman

During Holy Week, I read a review of this book, "Untie the Strong Woman" in a blog that I subscribe to: Spiritual Travels. It immediately grabbed my attention as yet again, Mary touched my life at Easter. I ordered the book and have already completed reading it. Like Dr. Estes' book "Women Who Run With the Wolves," (another personal favorite of mine), this one is full of stories, legends and mystical happenings that truly illustrate the 'Blessed Mother's immaculate love for the wild soul' which is the book's subtitle. I was enthralled; where has this Mary been all my life? That's one disadvantage of growing up Protestant...we don't have saints and once Christmas is past, we hear virtually nothing about Mary. Yet here she is...a living, breathing presence for so many people. A kind, compassionate heart to which those in pain, in trouble or in spiritual devastation pray. Mary comforts all and is part of all...politics, human rights, illegal immigration, abortion, the shameful history of oppresion and destruction of peoples. Her people pray to her in times of drought, war, pregnancy, prison, and troubled relationships. And Dr. Estes tells her story with ex-votos, poetry, and even a few naughty words. I think my favorite chapter in the book is actually a poem, "Guadalupe is a Girl Gang Leader in Heaven" That's my kind of woman!

I will begin re-reading this book today with pen and highlighter in hand just as I did with "Woman Who Run With the Wolves." There is much food for thought...and action here. At one point, Estes writes: “Her fingerprints are all over me….Her palm prints are on my shoulders from trying to steer me in various proper and difficult directions.” And now her fingerprints are all over me as well. Into which direction is she steering me? Time will tell.

Thanks to SoundsTrue for the book image.

Mary

I've been enwrapped in thoughts about Mary since Holy Week. I'm not surprised that she came into my thoughts then; for the past few years, I've experienced the Passion through her mother's eyes. It began my first Easter as a member of St. Timothy's Episcopal Church. My priest, Mary, took us through the Stations of the Cross on Good Friday. As she read Station 4: Jesus Meets His Mother, her voice broke and tears flowed, both hers and mine. Ever since, I've journeyed towards Easter with Mary, Blessed Mother of Christ. Her presence has lingered this year, though. Perhaps because I'm here in France where her fingerprints are everywhere...if only you open your eyes to see them. Any town large enough to have more than one church, invariably has one named Notre Dame...Our Lady...of something. Think of Paris. Notre Dame de Paris,Notre Dame des Victoires, Notre Dame de Lorette, Notre Dame d'Esperance, Notre Dame de Perpetual Secours, Notre Dame de Bercy, Notre Dame de la Grace...the list goes on. She is present, though, in every church here as statue or....

stained glass.

She holds her precious baby in the ruins of ancient abbeys....

She prays in the outside grottoes of tiny villages....

She watches over pilgrims as they pass through the portals of ancient fortified towns

and from the walls of the hostels where pilgrims sleep...

Look up...you may see her praying high in a niche on the wall of someone's home...

And she is frequently a presence for travelers in roadside chapels and shrines.

Mary is always there. You just have to open your eyes to see her.

My eyes are open, and I'll share what else I've seen with you in another post.

(all photos are from my travels in France 2009-2012)

Happy Easter!

Joyeuses Paques!

Holy Saturday

It's Holy Saturday. The cross is empty. Outside it's raining; the skies are heavy and gray. I read the service for this day in my Book of Common Prayer. There are no hymns of joy, there are no prayers of the people. We pray only the Lord's Prayer. The focus this day is Christ. It's a day of mourning for him, and a day of awaiting his resurrection tomorrow. It's a day to think about him, his suffering and his sacrifice, not about my worries and wants. As I meditate on Sainte Foy's flickering candle, I sense that even her normally exuberant self is subdued and quiet this day. She, with all the other saints and angels of heaven, will spend these last hours of Holy Week mourning the earthly death of Christ by sitting in quiet meditation and prayer. The angel choir will not sing today; the saints will not march. On this day heaven holds its breath and waits with me for the joy that comes in the morning.

A Mother's Suffering

This is Holy Week. All my devotions ask me to pray about the suffering of Jesus during this time. While I can do that intellectually, it isn't until I pray about Jesus' mother, Mary, that my heart breaks wide open and the tears flow...

 As a mother, I can feel the joy she must have felt as he preached, as his ministry spread. She can feel his exhaustion and knows how dangerous his ideas are to others. I know how she longs to comfort him, to hold his hand while he prayed. I can sorrow with her in the understanding that not one of his friends will stay awake and pray with him. But his mother would. Mothers are always on-call for comfort and support. She would say to him...'you rest now; I'll keep watch over you as I did when you were a baby' ....fully knowing there is nothing she can do to prevent the events of this week unfolding. I am angry and indignant with her as she watches him being scourged and tormented and mocked...her child! How dare they do that to him! I flinch with her and my gut tightens as we listen to each nail being pounded in. Oh, the agony! And I can weep with her as she stands by the cross watching the life fade from his eyes as he gives up himself to his heavenly Father.

Mary, who unlike us, doesn't know the rest of the story until she hears the rumors on Sunday. The tomb is empty; He has risen!

As God's servant, she rejoices. But as Jesus' mother, she still weeps bitter tears, and I weep with her. He is gone forever from her life. She will never hug him or lean on his arm for support again.  Never again will he sit at her table to share a meal and later talk with her of his dreams, his ideas, and his Father's plan for him. There will be no grandchildren; no daugher-in-law to help her in her old age. Jesus will not be there to hold her hand and weep for her when she dies. There is an empty place in her heart that will never again be filled...in this life

But today, Maundy Thursday, she does not yet know all this. All she knows is that tonight, Jesus will share the Passover meal with his friends, his disciples. They will break bread, drink wine, say the prayers and sing the songs. He will not eat at her table tonight for already he belongs to the world.

A mother weeps and suffers.

Psalm 24

"Lift up your heads, O gates!

and be lifted up, O ancient doors!

that the King of glory may come in.

Psalm 24:7