Considering the Lily

Consider the lily. That's what the screen on my new cell phone says, above a picture of a daylily from the garden in front of my house. My old cell phone said, "Consider the lilies," but there wasn't room for all those letters on my upgrade. So I'm down to reflecting on a single lily.

I am trying to do one thing at a time these days, so the modification of Jesus' wise counsel fits. Slowing down is the great gift--and challenge--of having the freedom to establish my own daily rhythm. I can do one thing at time. When I pray, I pray. When I walk the dog, I walk the dog. When I visit with a friend, I visit with a friend.

It's not always easy to be fully present and focused.  I'm used to multi-tasking and running behind schedule at least half the time. I still feel the pull of that rushed, always-plugged-in existence. A recent study says that it takes three days to unplug completely. But that's if you're out in the wilderness. How long does it take when you're in your own house? I'll let you know.

God created us with minds that work better when we turn our complete attention to the task, the person or the project in front of us.  One at a time. The lilies are gone now, but I'm going to practice by shutting off my cell phone and considering the leaves--I mean leaf.

Renewed by Surprise

I haven't ever sought out a drum circle. Nor have I ever participated in a program led by a man with dredlocks all the way down his back. I did both those things at Kripalu and found myself renewed in a way I'll never forget.

"Let's make some noise at this yoga center!," said our leader, Shaun J. Laframboise, of the KDZ Drummers. Shaun or one of his colleagues lead drum circles at least once a week at Kripalu. Guests looking for some release from all the quiet and intentionality can pull up a seat--and a hand drum.

I almost didn't go, but at the last minute decided to give it a try. I have a list of four practices I find renewing (see the description of my sabbatical plans at the top of the blog), and drum circle isn't on it.  I had my doubts.

"When you put two grandfather clocks in a room together," Shaun told us, their pendulums eventually start swinging in sync. No one knows why. The only theory that has held up over time is that things go better when we work together.

The same is true with drumming, an ancient form of community building practiced around the world. When people repeat even the most basic rhythms together something mysterious happens: they get in tune with each other and with themselves. As the beat goes on, people smile. They laugh. Sometimes they cry. There's a sacred, elemental, moving quality to drumming that draws out the spirit of life.

As I got more comfortable with the rhythm Shaun taught us, I closed my eyes.  I didn't want to see the other participants. I just wanted to listen to my own beat, in tune with theirs. At least for the moment.

"May you be surprised by what finds you," someone said, just as my sabbatical began. I already have been.

Minister on the Mat

I'm back from Kripalu, reflecting and reflecting. . . There were moments on the trails I walked around Kripalu's beautiful property when I wanted to shout, "God is good!" That's the one-sentence summary of my experience. I loved the gentle morning yoga. I loved the guided hikes and the bike ride through Stockbridge.  Much to my surprise, I loved the drum circle (more on that, later). I loved the healthy food, the silent breakfasts, and the conversations over lunch and dinner with other guests or volunteers. I will cherish all these things in my heart for some time to come.

Morning coffee was the only issue. They didn't serve any in the expansive cafeteria. All kinds of juices, teas, filtered water, locally-made apple cider could be yours--as much as you want. But no coffee. So I stood in line at the small cafe downstairs, with all the other people who weren't quite ready to give up caffeine. In the old days, which coffee-drinking Kripalu staff call "B.C."--before coffee--you couldn't even buy a cup on the premises. People would bring in instant, like contraband, and slip it into their hot water. Or sneak a bike excursion to town for a latte.

I got into yoga by way of an injury, or as I like to think of it, a humbling.  My body wouldn't do what I wanted it to do, and finally let me know: out on a run one day, my piriformis popped. The pain was breathtaking--and as I eventually learned a sign of a back condition, which along with a piriformis, I did not know I had, spondylolisthesis.

I used to run a lot, and sometimes I would feel a kind of cohesion between my body, my breath,  the natural world and God that I did not experience in other kinds of activity. When the running had to stop I was left with a longing for the same experience of cohesion. Eventually I found my way to the floor, in child's pose on a yoga mat.

Yoga, which means to unite, join, harness or yoke, was developed thousands of years ago as a way to prepare for meditation; it is a practice intended to sharpen our awareness and dispose us to receive grace. Which so many of us seem to need.

At Kripalu I met someone who got into yoga when his father died; I met someone else who was on a retreat with a group of relief workers from Haiti; I took a class from a beautiful woman who told us she'd spent six years of her life on crutches, and that the best yoga class she'd ever taken was taught by a woman who had MS. I read testimony from a firefighter who was on duty on 9/11, and came to Kripalu  several months later. Grief, trauma, injury--something humbles us, and we end up on the mat longing for stillness and, as one priest put it,  for "reestablishment of contact with the body."

Kripalu yoga is named after a beloved Indian religious leader, Swami Kripalvananda, who lived from 1913-1981, the last four of those years at the original Kripalu center in Pennsylvania. His name means"The Compassionate One," so the form of yoga named after him is rooted in compassion: compassion for the self and compassion for others. As we practice the yoga poses this way, learning to treat our bodies with compassion a little more each time, we open ourselves to the possibility of unity, at least in fleeting moments, with a God who looks on us with compassion all the time.

When I showed my eleven-year-old daughter the Kripalu Web site, she said, "That looks like a place you would like; it would drive me crazy!" Yoga is not for everyone.  But my daughter was right: I did like Kripalu. No, I loved it.

Getting Lost

On my first full day of sabbatical I got lost. I was on my way to Kripalu, envisioning myself sinking into the mat and taking lots of deep breaths during the afternoon yoga class, when it dawned on me there was no way I was going to get there in time.  The woman at the Budget rental car desk at the Albany, NY airport told me, "I can get you to Lenox!" If only I had followed her directions. I was supposed to take three turns but only took two, so instead of going east I went south.

Fortunately, I realized I was heading to New York City rather than The Berkshires at a good point to turn around: a bridge across the Hudson River, which took me to the Taconic Parkway.
The day was beautiful and so was the drive; I even stopped at one of the overlooks and took a picture. Barbara Brown Taylor's chapter about the practice of getting lost, in An Altar in the World, came to mind.

Getting lost can be a spiritual practice, Taylor says, if you are willing to approach it that way, and let it bring you to your knees, show you what is real and remind you how close God can be when you've lost your way. I knew I did not want to arrive at a yoga center all tense and frazzled, so as I drove I experimented with my approach: rather than berate myself for missing a turn or lament the two hours I missed at Kripalu as a result, I gave thanks for the unexpected twist--and for the time to be lost in the beauty of God's creation.

Blessed With Stones

I received several thoughtful gifts yesterday during the sabbatical blessing at the end of the church service, and one curious gift: a bag of stones. Then when I got home, my family had a few presents for me, too. I picked up the first one, and knew what it was before I opened it: more stones! I confess I struggled to interpret the message behind these gifts. "Blessings on your sabbatical: have some stones." Then I read the description that came with the bag: each stone was given by a child. Like the children, the stones are unique and beautiful in their own way. As the card said, "Ideally, the stones will be tactile reminders of our love for you." Then I looked at the stones my family gave me. One said "Peace" and the other said "Joy." I added those stones to the children's stones, as tactile reminders of my love and prayer for them. I will dip my hands into this collection of stones often over the next three months, giving thanks to God for community, grace and the mystery of creation. As I begin this time apart, I couldn't have asked for a more perfect gift.

Making Room

I have been making room--physically and spiritually--in spite of myself and, in some small ways, intentionally. Sabbatical feels like a time to open up space to receive the mysteries of God's grace. If you don't have the space, grace might bounce back to the sender. I ordered some new, colorful binders made from recycled materials, from a place called "Naked Binders." An apt description for the three months ahead! As I put the new binders in my study, I let go of a stack of documents, along with a few boxes of books. While I was in the mood to clean out, I put a bottle of laundry detergent we've had for months in the car; we can't use it because it's not HE (I failed to read the fine print, which seems to get harder and harder to do). I took it to the local "waste convenience center" and left it on the shelf designated for reusable items. The kind man who works there told me, "someone will pick it up." I hope so. And I'm thankful for a place to transfer things I don't need--so that I can make room.