Merton's "Le pointe vierge" and J.O. Schrag's "A Dot"

John Orlin "J.O." Schrag was a dentist by profession, but reminded me that one should be very careful to avoid defining anyone solely by what they do for income. I assume he was skilled at cleaning and filling teeth, but that's not what J.O. was doing when I met him. I met in his final years of life which were spent in the nursing care facility where I serve as a chaplain. I came to know J.O. as a poet, a careful observer of life and one who was willing to ask the difficult and necessary questions.

I will never forget the day we were sitting together in one of the more public areas in the health care center, watching residents and staff going about daily routines. The birds were chirping away in the aviary next to us, staff were responding to an assortment of beeping alerts and residents were slowly moving about to various activities and appointments. It was a busy place, and we quietly sat there taking it all in.

At some point I realized that J.O. was looking over at me from his wheelchair. When I returned his gaze he gave a wry smile and asked, "What is the purpose of this place?"  His question took me aback. I hoped it was in some way rhetorical. When I didn't immediately reply, J.O. repeated the question, assuring me that he did want to hear my answer.

I don't recall what I said, something about community, honoring the opportunities of life at all stages and giving care and support. It was a mash-up of what came to mind in the face of such an honest, hard question. When I was done he held my gaze a moment longer and then said, "Hmmmm, perhaps."  It was clear that he hoped I would keep considering the question.

I do. I keep considering J.O.'s question. I have yet to articulate a satisfactory answer and suspect that it probably doesn't have one, at least not one that would be satisfactory to everyone.

The other day I was on a walk through the cemetery near my home. As I scanned the fields of gravestones my attention was drawn to a black granite gravestone with a large gray circle. I walked closer and was surprised to find myself standing next to J.O.'s grave. I smiled when I saw that his poem "A Dot" was written out in plain script on the dark stone:


a dot
small
very small
we all started as a dot
just a speck
loaded with all the goodies we would ever need
the directions were all there
size, color, sex, numbers of hair
toes and all other details
a loaded dot
where, where did it come from?
from parents?
perhaps
from where did they receive their dots?
dots have no beginnings or endings
just like what we call God
from everlasting to everlasting
God or eternal energy reduced into a dot
we too are part of God
we have no beginning
no ending


J.O.'s words reconnect me with one of my favorite passages of Thomas Merton's writings. In his essay, "A Member of the Human Race," Merton evokes the image of le pointe vierge:

Again, that expression, le pointe vierge (I cannot translate it) comes in here. At the center of our being is a point of pure nothingness which is untouched by sin and illusion, a point of pure truth, a point or spark that belongs entirely to God, which is never at our disposal, from which God disposes of our lives, which is inaccessible to the fantasies of our own mind or the brutalities of our own will. This little point of nothingness and of absolute poverty is the pure glory of God written in us. It is so to speak his name written in us, as our poverty, as our indigence, as our dependence, as our sonship. It is like a pure diamond blazing with the invisible light of heaven. It is in everybody, and if we could see it we would see these billions of points of light coming together in the face and blaze of a sun that would make all the darkness and cruelty of life vanish completely.

At the heart of our being:
this "dot" of
no beginning
and no ending,
this point vierge of pure being
and unadulterated love

may I know it within me,
may I see it within you,
so that some great light
will guide us in the darkness

tzimtzum

photo by Yolanda Kauffman

tzimtzum: a term used in the Kabbalistic writings of Isaac Luria to describe God's act of creation following an initial act of contraction. Luria posited that God must withdraw some aspect of the Ein Sof, or Infinite essence of God, in order to make room for all that is.


to write a true word on the page it is first necessary to withhold judgment, the movement of hand must be trusted and the pen released to do its needed task       the same must be true for the hammer dropping onto chisel and stone, or brush strokes of pigment on canvas      there must be a release of the remembered and the preconceived    and yet, there is also an imprint, the fragrant echo of the maker that carries on    how does one beget new life without some death?   how does one create without leaving a part of oneself behind?
 

Silence

Silence

You are sinew

between sound

source of word

home of melody

the pause

a bridging gap

from this breath

to the next

You are the stories of spores

clinging to the underside

of a fern frond

in the distant forest

the cry of stony atoms

spinning in the heart

of Michelangelo’s Mary

who holds her cold son

the dark messenger

between star and planet

and the feathers

of a raven’s wing

You are what comes

before the right question

and what should follow

the impertinent answer

witness to the gift not given

a service not rendered

the trigger not pulled

a resentment forgotten

You are an infant’s gaze

the flushed skin of the lover

a parent’s greatest fear

the elder’s forgotten tale

and when we are done

whether ready or resistant

You are the summons

we will follow

Befriending Silence

Silence is the pause in me

when I am near to God.

                         Arvo Pärt

Imagine a great symphony without spaces between the notes. Imagine a conversation with a beloved friend without pauses between the words. Imagine making your way through an incessant wall of noise without any distinction between voice or sound. It would be disorienting to say the least.

Silence is not just the absence of sound, it is a spacious and steady ground beneath all we say or do. All words we speak arise from silence, and return to it. All musical notes sung or played emerge from the silence and fall back to it. Silence is always there, waiting beneath the noise, the busyness and the excess of our daily living.

The 17^th century mathematician and philosopher, Blaise Pascal, once made the observation, “All humanity’s miseries derive from not being able to sit in a quiet room alone.”

Perhaps there’s more than a little hyperbole in his statement, but there is much truth as well. We can grow accustomed to –even addicted to – the noisy distractions of our living. I hear in Pascal’s words the wise insight that we need silence in order to be well. We need enough silence and spaciousness in our lives to be able to reflect thoughtfully, to wait patiently, to listen attentively and respond wakefully to God’s presence within us and among us.

A more contemporary Christian teacher, Thomas Keating, puts it simply: “Silence is God’s primary language; everything else is poor translation.”  Are we listening? Are we open to slowing down, quieting down enough to befriend the silence that is always there within us and around us?

A Simple Silent Meditation Practice: Find a space where you know you will not be interrupted. Find a comfortable sitting position for your body, making sure your posture is upright and alert. Either close your eyes or let your gaze gently rest on the floor in front of you. Take several deep breaths, paying attention to your breath coming in and going out. Offer a quiet prayer of intention, welcoming God to meet you in this time. Sit in the silence. If you find your mind wandering or experience sleepiness, simply bring your attention back to the present moment by attending to your breath. Alternately, you might use a sacred word or name for God as your focal point. If you find yourself distracted simply offer this word/name in the silence as a renewal of your intention to be in this present moment with loving, non-judgmental awareness. Simply notice the thoughts as they arise and release them into God’s care. Our minds are active and there is a reason why many wise teachers have described our chronic thought patterns as “monkey mind”! At the end of the time quietly offer a prayer of gratitude. Trust that this time is a precious gift that will go with you into your day. If this sort of practice is unfamiliar you might start with just a few minutes of silence and then increase the time to a 20-30 minute meditation period.

Originally published in Kidron Bethel Village's Village Voice newsletter (March 2017)

The House of Mirrors

The House of Mirrors

Here in the house of mirrors there

are many choice vantage points for

gazing on yourself

gazing on yourself

gazing on

your

self.

If you are fortunate enough

to stumble across a window

in this place of figments

do not fear the strange view

climb

through

it.

Alternately, a hammer

may prove useful here—

that is, if you really

want to see

your

true

face.

Wounded Sight

Honey Locust at Heartland Farm, November 2014

I will soon receive one of the quintessential signs of growing older: bifocals—well, “progressive lenses,” to use the more exact term. I'm not sure a hipper sounding name will make them any more welcome on the bridge of my nose. Though I wore eyeglasses throughout my childhood, I've managed to do without them through most of my adult years. Now, the passage of time has caught up with me and my eyes are letting me know that they require some assistance.

As I sat through my eye exam last week I marveled at the mechanics of sight. Vision is no small miracle; it is, in fact, the result of a whole chain of miracles. There is the strange miracle of light, behaving as both wave and particle, there is the evolutionary miracle of the eye itself, and its linkage through a nerve-cable to our brain—our miraculous, wondrous brain!—which flips the images we see right-side-up and helps us process, remember and make meaning of what we see. 

Sight is also connected to our heart. I do not mean merely the heart that pumps away at the center of our chest, but the very heart of our being, that living center of existence where our body, mind and spirit are woven together as one. This is the heart spoken of in scripture, such as the refrain found throughout the psalms: “I will praise you, O Lord, with my whole heart.”

What we see is connected to this heart of our being. If we are willing to look on our world and our life with open eyes, our hearts will inevitably be wounded by what we see. To possess vision is to be wounded.

I remember seeing, for the first time, a homeless person sleeping on the streets. I remember seeing my parents and family members weeping at my young cousin's funeral. I remember seeing death for the first time. I remember more than one occasion on which I saw the painful results of my ill-spoken words and my hurtful actions. These were wounding sights. One cannot un-see such things. Once seen, they become part of us, wounds deep within. Such wounds, if we do not deny or ignore them, have the potential of awakening greater compassion, wisdom and insight. 

Our sight is wounding because sometimes it is wounding to be seen. It is said that “the eyes are windows to the soul,” and it is not always a comforting thing when someone looks into our eyes, our soul, and sees something we might rather hide from view. There is a wound that comes when we know ourselves as fully seen by our neighbor and by God, and grow more vulnerable and humble in their sight. Once again, this is the sort of wounding of the heart that can soften us, deepen us and open us.

If you have been given the gift of sight, give thanks for it this day. It is precious, and not to be taken for granted. Gaze on your life and the world with curiosity and wonder. Remain open to both the beauty and the brokenness that you see. Have the courage to let yourself be seen as you meet the gaze of beloved ones in your life, and as you live in the loving sight of God. In this way may our hearts continue to expand and open with love.

Advent Week 1: Into wilderness

See, I am sending my messenger 
before your face,
who will prepare your way;
the voice of one
crying in the wilderness . . . 

MARK 1:2-3  


Perhaps it was only in the wilderness of the Jordan River that John the Baptist's message could be heard and understood. People had to leave behind the comforts of home, the noise of daily living and their carefully oiled mechanisms for control. They needed to walk out into a place that had a reputation for being dangerous and unnerving for its utter unfamiliarity and emptying silence. They had to accept such exposure before they could fully turn toward a life they had never known or expected.

Perhaps it is only in the wilderness that we hear and understand some new thing, a new birth that is waiting but cannot yet be perceived. The wilderness of not knowing, not seeing, not controlling is present, sometimes at the margins of our living and sometimes it seems to be everywhere we look. Always it invites us to willingly traverse its reaches and prepare to turn, and turn yet again.

First Sunday of Advent 2016

Deo gratias

For early morning when darkness
is slow to leave, and a candle flame
reveals the persistence of light,

Deo gratias,
thanks be to God.

For the maple tree’s feisty root
pushing up through my sidewalk,
and all the messy forcefulness of life,

Deo gratias,
thanks be to God.

For the losses we must bear
and the friends who will not let us
carry the burden of grief alone,

Deo gratias,
thanks be to God.

For the one I want to name “my enemy”
and the mirror he may be to my own
unholy words, my own shameful actions,

Deo gratias,
thanks be to God.

For the injury, the illness, the wound,
and what these might teach us about
receiving a neighbor’s love,

Deo gratias,
thanks be to God.

For disappointed hopes and unfulfilled
dreams, and the doorways they
become to new possibilities,
 
Deo gratias,
thanks be to God.

For the eventide of this day and of this life,
when the Mystery of all mysteries grows near
and life glows most precious and full,

Deo gratias,
thanks be to God.

For this moment—
for this uncommon moment—
and for our common life,

Deo gratias,
thanks be to God.

friends

                                                                                                                                                     
                                                                                                                                                     ©Yolanda Kauffman     

This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you. No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends. You are my friends… JOHN 15:12-15

But what happiness, what security, what joy to have someone to whom you dare to speak on terms of equality as to another self; one to whom you need have no fear to confess your failings; one to whom you can unblushingly make known what progress you have made in the spiritual life; one to whom you can entrust all the secrets of your heart and before whom you can place all your plans! 

                      Aelred of Rievaulx, Spiritual Friendship (12^th cent.)

“I’ve got your back,” a friend said to me recently. The message I received in that moment was: “If you fall, I’ll be here to help you. If you fail, I will stand beside you. If you get hurt, I will help you heal. If you need a hand, I’ve got two.” It was a simple statement of steadfast loyalty and love—the love of a true friend.

Jesus goes even farther in his message on friendship: a friend is willing to lay down life for the sake of the other. He said this, and soon thereafter he lived out the meaning of these words for all to see; he offered his own life out of love for his friends.

I’ve never been asked to go so far in a relationship. I’ve never faced a moment in which I was asked to literally sacrifice my life for the sake of a loved one. What would any of us do in such a moment? 

 

I wonder if we can even contemplate sacrificing our life for another if we haven’t already been practicing “laying down life” in the ordinary, daily moments when we are asked to make much smaller—but far from insignificant—sacrifices for our friends, neighbors, and even strangers. Have I been willing to “lay down” resentments, jealousies, prideful self-seeking, irritations big and small, my “to do” lists, among other things, for the love of my friends and neighbors? 

 

             Friendship is an invaluable gift. If you’ve heard a friend speak the words “I love you,” then you have grown wealthy beyond measure in this life. If you’ve had a friend show you that love in action, then there really is no greater treasure you could hope to receive.

             Give thanks for the holy ground of the friendships in your life. How might you express that gratitude today? Where are you being invited to “lay down life” for the love of your friends?

new year's intentions

                                                                                                                           photo:  feather  by Yolanda Kauffman

The threshold of a New Year naturally invites reflection and anticipation. We reflect on the swift passing of one year with its varied layers, and we anticipate all that is yet to come.

In the past I've joined many people, and perhaps you, too, in making New Year’s resolutions. Sometimes the resolutions were practical: “I will get physical exercise at least four times each week.” In other years, they were more introspective and intangible: “I will be more patient with interruptions, more open to spontaneous opportunities.”

It's one thing to make a resolution, and it's another thing entirely to follow through on it! Only rarely has my follow-through lasted an entire year. More often than not, if you met up with me in July and asked how my resolutions were going I would've been hard pressed to even remember them clearly.

I've observed over time that my resolutions often contain a degree of judgment directed toward myself or the world around me. Resolutions typically include an assumption that what is, right now, is not okay; it is lacking in some way. Therefore, I must work to change it (my fitness level, my impatience, etc.).  This means I approach a resolution as an act of will. It is up to me to buckle down and see it through. If I don’t then I've failed in some way, and I have only myself to blame.

The root of the word resolution literally means “reducing things to simpler forms.” It has also grown to mean finding the answers, or “taking the bull by the horns.” It means I often reduce my world down to me.

There is a place and time in this life for such individual resolve. However, I've found that the most creative changes in life have not come through my own willful resolutions or my efforts to take control. The most meaningful transformation has come more in the moments that required me to release my grip, to let go of my own willfulness, and to live from a place of openness, vulnerability, and deeper trust.

True and lasting change in this life comes when we are willing to start right where we are,   without first wishing life to be any different than it actually is. This is where Love meets us. Love has the power to work only through what is true and real. So, on the cusp of this New Year, with all that has been and all that yet may be, may we be right here, right now, with one another, and with the Great Love that has the power to transform all things.   

soak up sun like stone

Cold autumn day, yet
to be still is to grow warm -- 
soak up sun like stone.







photo: center stone at Heartland Farm labyrinth