Yesterday morning, we had the pleasure of attending Sunday services at Marchmont St. Giles Parish Church, the place where I was baptized in 1986. The Minister, Rev. Dr. Karen K Campbell gave a great sermon about humility, in connection with the reading from Jeremiah 18 about the potter and the clay. “’Can I not do with you, Israel, as this potter does? declares the Lord. ‘Like clay in the hand of the potter, so you are in my hand.’” The word “humility” comes from the word for “earth” or “clay.” At the time I was baptized, I was a graduate student in the philosophy department in the David Hume Tower, which we can see from the window of our Air B and B. In the words of Thomas Merton, “I was in the thick of my thesis, making hundreds of mistakes that I would not be able to detect for several years to come, because I was far out of my depth.”
I was out of my depth in other ways as well in those days. Bill Wilson puts it this way: “This lack of anchorage to any permanent values, this blindness to the true purpose of our lives, produced another bad result. For just so long as we were convinced that we could live exclusively by our own individual strength and intelligence, for just that long was a working faith in a Higher Power impossible. This was true even when we believed God existed. We could actually have earnest religious beliefs which remained barren because we were still trying to play God ourselves. As long as we placed self-reliance first, a genuine reliance upon a Higher Power was out of the question. That basic ingredient of humility, a desire to seek and do God’s will, was missing.”
As we were coming into town on the first day, and I told the taxi driver that I had gone to Edinburgh University, he said, “It’s one of the top ten universities in the world, you know.” In the days when I was proud of that fact, I thought humility was some kind of groveling contempt for oneself, a quality to be avoided at all costs. I was desperate to show off my accomplishments and to accomplish even more, because in those days my self-worth was tied to external accomplishments. If I prayed, it was to complain to God or to tell God what to do. Luckily, over the years, repeated humiliations have taught me the folly of reliance on my own intellect, my own accomplishments and achievements. At Marchmont yesterday, we sang a hymn based on Psalm 139 with the line “for the wonder of who I am, I praise You.” This is the meaning of humility for me today – I didn’t make myself, did I?

The castle from Princes Street Gardens; 
Ian once played "Lament for Major General Reginald Harmon" here

The other day, Matt and I were walking past Edinburgh Old College and I asked Matt if he wanted to look inside the courtyard because it was one of the most beautiful examples of Robert Adam Scottish Enlightenment Neo-Classical architecture ever, and he said sure, so we went in and there was this man in highland dress carrying bagpipes.  My old teacher, Bob Beck, taught me to scoff at pipers in full highland dress walking around Edinburgh, because they are usually buskers, not very talented, giving bagpiping a bad name, so I was suspicious. But we went over and struck up a conversation with his companion, who turned out to be an American woman who worked for the Virginia Tattoo. She said he was going to play the bagpipes for some kind of medical school event and who was he? None other than the pipe major for the Scots Guards, Ross McCrindle. For those of you unfamiliar with the world of piping, this would be the equivalent of seeing a random cellist playing in the Edinburgh Old College and then realizing it was Yo-Yo Ma.
He was totally friendly and humble, and very patient with me, even when I showed him the picture of myself in the Vet School Pipe Band.  He asked who my teacher was and I said Bob Beck. He had never met Bob, but said he sounded like quite a character, which he certainly was. I told him how Bob had returned his MBE because he thought he did not want to be a “Member of the British Empire,” how when I had played poorly he had said, “Sounds like the Queen’s comin’ round” and other bits of Bob Beck wit and wisdom. Ross played a little bit of the piobiareachd “Lament for the Children, the jig “”Troy’s Wedding,” and per my request, “The Australian Ladies.”  When I asked him to play that last tune, the look on his face and he said, “That’s sort of an unusual request.” I told him it had been my “signature tune” for the MSR (March, Strathspey and Reel). He replied that it had been his late father’s favorite, and he had never heard anyone request it before. As I listened, I thought of Bob Beck, and his father, both of whom have returned to the earth now.
Ross plays "The Australian Ladies" for us 

The next day, we climbed Arthur’s Seat and looked out to incredible views over Edinburgh Castle, the Royal Mile, the Firth of Forth, and Duddingston Kirk,

On Arthur's Seat

Ruined  St Anthony's Chapel in Holyrood Park

where the matron of Masson Hall (the ladies’ boarding house where I used to live) had attended services. She loved to tell us the story of the time she saw a young lassie sitting in the pew during the service one Sunday. Everyone else was going up for communion except for this young woman, who sat there, weeping piteously, too full of shame to approach the altar. When everyone else had taken communion, the minister came over to her with the bread and wine. He looked down kindly at her and said, “Tak’ it, lassie; it’s meant for sinners.”

fine Georgian architecture

Not Going "Back to School" for the First Time

This time of year, for the past thirty years, I have started getting ready to go back to school. I have certain rituals: posting the poetry slam masterpiece "What Teachers Make" by  Taylor Mali

and the "anyone, anyone?" scene from Ferris Bueller's Day off, and then I start thinking about my introductory lectures and lessons and readings for each of my classes.  Not that I ever stopped thinking about teaching, as I sometimes joke about “teacher brain” and how whenever I see something, no matter how horrible, my mind starts working to figure out how to incorporate it into the classroom.  For the first time ever, at a museum, I just looked at the exhibits without thinking about where to fit the material into the curriculum.  I simply wrote about it in my blog instead.  I’d love to do a lesson on historiography, comparing different treatments of Henry Ford’s anti-Semitism and how it has been dealt with by the Ford Museum, the City of Dearborn, the Anti-Defamation League, etc.  But no more – I have left my teaching job and am traveling the world for a year before going “back to school” myself, to Seattle U, where I plan to pursue a M. Div. and hope to become some kind of chaplain.

I am thrilled to be switching gears at this time in my life.  Matthew spent more than a year undergoing treatment for colorectal cancer, and is now cancer-free.  What better time to take a year off and travel the world? I am turning 56 this year; what better time to step back and re-examine my life, and return to a lifelong dream of divinity school?

I want to be very clear, however: if not for the changes at my former workplace over the past several years, there would be NO WAY that I would be taking these actions.  My original intention was to live and die at the school I loved, the school founded by three legendary teachers, the school that made me the person I am today, that gave me my living and my vocation, my dearest friends and my sense of purpose, for the past almost 30 years. I would have been like my own high school English teacher, Meta O’Crotty, who taught (literally) up until the day she died.  Legend has it that one day, at the age of 70-or-80-something, she said to her students, “I’m not feeling very well” (probably in the middle of a lesson on Virginia Woolf) and went home early.  Later, they found her seated in a chair, with the Oxford English Dictionary open on her lap.  She was dead. Some wags have inquired, “What word was she looking at?” If only we knew.

That would have been me.  Instead, I spent this week in New York, visiting the Metropolitan Museum of Art and attending a performance of “A Fidler Afn Dakh,” the Yiddish production of Fiddler on the Roof.  At the show, I struck up a conversation with a fellow theatergoer, a fifty-something woman who happened to be another teacher who had also just left her job at a formerly radical independent school in New York.

When a school styles itself a “progressive” independent school, they usually mean (according to their website) that they are committed to social justice, inquiry-based interdisciplinary education, and all that good stuff that educators like John Dewey believed in. The website boldly proclaims that the school "remains faithful to the spirit of its founder,”  who created an experimental public school in 1921 on the Lower East Side serving mostly Yiddish-speaking children of Jewish refugees who narrowly escaped the pogroms. My new friend had just returned from a Yiddish summer camp https://yiddishsummer.eu/, where she had been learning Yiddish protest songs and klezmer music for several summers in a row. She told me this was one of the most radical acts of resistance possible these days – to preserve and speak the Yiddish language, to become a living Holocaust memorial. This explains why she was attending the “Yiddish Fiddler.”

She told me that Angela Davis had attended her school. I learned that Rank Smith, who became director of after the founder passed away, was brought before the HUAC. In his testimony, Rank told the committee, “We are a private school, but essentially we don’t believe in private education…in a democracy the main scheme of education has to be public education. We are a private school by accident rather than intent. We would prefer to have a public school system where every citizen would take pride.” Eleanor Roosevelt was a supporter of the school and served on its board for decades. Anne and Abel Meeropol, who adopted Julius and Ethel Rosenberg’s children after they were executed, sent them to the school as well. Later, under the pen name Lewis Allen, Abel wrote the anti-lynching song “Strange Fruit” made famous by Billie Holliday. In 1964, students participated in the Congress of Racial Equality protests for a fair world at the World’s Fair in New York that year. After a group of protesters that included Bayard Rustin and James Farmer were arrested for blocking the entrance to the New York City pavilion, students from this school volunteered to replace them – and were subsequently arrested also.

With a legacy like that, what radical, subversive, progressive teacher wouldn’t want to teach there until the day she died?

Unless, as my friend and I found, there is no “there” anymore, because the school has been reshaped by the board and the head of school into a very different institution, a place that actually stands in the way of teachers doing the work they love, and more importantly, prevents them from following the school’s original mission, which was centered on faculty who modeled thinking and acting with integrity.  The current administration of a school like this has very little connection to the original vision of a rigorously compassionate, fiercely intellectual community dedicated to a life of integrity and service. Radical teachers do not “retire” from or even “quit” such a place. What happens is this – the school disappears, and the institution that replaces it in the same building, usually contemporaneously with a fancy remodel, is not a place for such teachers, is not kind to such teachers so they must leave, or be forced out, to seek out other communities, perhaps a younger school, perhaps to found their own school, perhaps to try their hand at something else.

I can’t begin to fathom all the reasons why these types of institutions change over the years, but I am guessing it has to do with a change in the parent and student population, the political climate, the overall culture of the area they live in (Yiddish speaking Reds and granola crunching professors move out; Microsoft and other moneyed types move in) and above all, of course, money. True progressive education is hard. Really hard. And most private school parents today don’t want their children to have a really hard time. They don’t pay forty or fifty thousand dollars a year so their kids can feel uncomfortable and angry and get arrested for putting their bodies in harm’s way for the sake of social justice. They want their kids to go to good colleges – to think critically just enough for that, and no more. Not too much critical examination of their society a la James Baldwin, more learning how to excel in such a society. Heck, last year's senior parents didn't even want their children to spend 20 hours working on a political campaign, because it might interfere with college applications or worse, get in the way of sports.

The original Northwest School was founded by geniuses who were also teachers, and who knew what genius teachers needed to do their best work. I recently read a short entry from the writings of Paul Raymond, in which he described an original student-centered classroom:

“The teacher I love above all others, however, is a young man – just 24 this year – whose field is biology….The first class he ever taught began with him absent. There was a note on the blackboard:

            ‘Hi! This is biology 1-A. I’m Mark Terry. This is a lab. Look at any of the equipment or magazine or books, if you wish. Please put things back as they were at the end of the period. This afternoon and tomorrow morning I am going to the mountains to get some stuff. Up to 5 people may go each time. Sign up below, then meet me here at the right time.’

The ‘stuff’ he brought back were roadkills: skunks, possums, cats, etc. His next class began with a few words about how sad it was that the animals were killed, but, at the same time, how fortunate, because Mark wished to add them to his skeleton collection. He then enlisted the students’ assistance in recovering the skeletons.

            That, of course, was by no means the end; it was the beginning, not only of anatomy, but physiology and even animal behavior and many other wonderful things, all charted along lines eventually determined by the students.”

I was very pleased and honored that the seniors asked me to speak at their graduation this year. I loved teaching them, especially the International Students and my philosophy class, and wanted to keep the focus on the “kids,” while at the same time making it very clear that the instantiation of the Platonic Form, the spiritual vision of the founders, is no longer in the physical building very much. I based my speech on a Platonic Ideal  as I understood it, as I learned it from the founders, and also on The Grapes of Wrath, the part where Tom Joad gives his famous speech to Ma about how “when there’s a cop beatin’ up a guy, I’ll be around.” (I just quoted that from memory, so it might be inaccurate, but if you’ve read that book, you know what I’m talking about). I am including the video of my speech, if you care to watch it here.

I was honored to learn my teaching craft from Paul Raymond, Mark Terry, and others who, like Thomas Merton’s great teacher, Mark Van Doren, “would start talking about whatever was to be talked about. Most of the time he asked questions. His questions were very good, and if you tried to answer them intelligently, you found yourself saying excellent things you did not know you knew, and that you had not, in fact, known before. He had ‘educed’ them from you by his question.” Merton writes that Van Dorn was able to ennoble his students, and in turn was perfected and ennobled by his vocation. This is what is meant by the original founding statement of the school – the quality of education is dependent on the quality of the faculty, and that old Northwest School “offered a faculty.” This new iteration of the school simply offers a program, a program offered by just about every other run-of-the-mill progressive, liberal arts-based independent school in the whole system. There are still some genius teachers there, but they get the message, in no uncertain terms, that they are interchangeable and replaceable and expendable, like the interchangeable blocks in the new schedule. I wish them well today as they go back to school, to try to honor and ennoble their students, and their profession, for another year.

sic transit gloria mundi, right?  #embracetheconstant

Matthew's Travel Anxiety Dream #1

Matt and great-nephew Keenan at the wedding

The first part I remember is the only baggage I have is my sling bag, and that duffel bag I got from Telluride to bring back all the free gifts. But it is empty except for a coat hanger, a collapsible hiking pole, and a casino players card which I take out and put into my pocket. The next thing I know we are at the gate and the woman at the British Airways counter says I need to pay her eight dollars. I have to pay her, so I reach into my pocket and I put all the stuff on the counter – the casino card, a crumpled receipt, and two five-dollar bills. I also have a scratch card from the casino for a free gift. I lay everything on the counter and I’m un-crumpling the five dollar bills and give them to the attendant, and she gives me a snooty look because she’s British Airways and needs to give me two dollars in change.  The second attendant starts scratching off the scratch card, and says, “I’ve won a free Christmas gift!”

There’s a guy behind me who is like 7’10” and he’s standing really close to me, so I start nudging back, pushing back and he says, “You got enough room there?” and I say no, actually. Then he says, “You need a financial advisor?”

I ask him, “What kind of trousers are you wearing?” He says, “These are formal dress slacks.” I say, “I want a guy who wears Wranglers.” 

Then I say, “I’ll bet you got a lot of basketball scholarships.” He says, “Yeah, all through high school and college.  I would throw the ball at the announcers.”  Then I’m on the jetway, ready to board the plane, and you are coming towards me with a worried look on your face, and then I wake up.

One More Ride in the Cadillac

“I’m not what I think I am; I am what I think.” This is one of the “Matt Beall-isms” I have heard many times over the years.  Many are in rhyming couplets (e.g. “You spot it/You got it” or “If it’s odd/It’s God”), but this one sees more like a Zen Koan, courtesy of Matt, “the real alcoholic.”

“What does this mean?” I asked Matt the other day.

“When I think of myself as a gregarious, honest, God-seeking person and then go into a meditative state or a contemplative state and evaluate that statement of what I think I am, I find it to be false because of my thinking in breaking it down.  So when I identify those things that don’t support the truth - through my actions- I change. I change my behaviors, my thinking, so I think I’m different from when I started off, so that’s why it’s constant change.  I don’t know how you’re gonna fix that. Good luck.”

“You are saying you are in a constant process of self-examination.”

“Not from a negative or positive position, but one of being neutral in contemplating.  In thinking.”

I think Matt is a lot “better” at Centering Prayer than I am, by which I mean that he is more readily willing to let go of each thought and gently return to his Sacred Word.  I, on the other hand, am often unwilling to do this, when an attractive thought occurs to me and I have the desire to explore it. For instance, this morning I was drawn into an interior conversation about whether the current administration of my former place of work is “morally corrupt and intellectually bankrupt” or “intellectually corrupt and morally bankrupt.”  I rolled the phrases lovingly around in my mind, switching out the adverbs and adjectives dozens of times, willfully forgetting that I was even doing Centering Prayer.  This happens to me all the time.

Steven and me at the Belle Isle Conservatory

This kind of thinking is probably the exact opposite of the aim of my spiritual practice as I understand it: a kenosis, or emptying myself of each thought and gently returning to the Sacred Word with the aim of making myself ready to receive the gift of contemplation, or “resting in God.” In the words of Thomas Merton, “There is in my heart this great thirst to recognize totally the nothingness of all that is not God. My prayer is then a kind of praise rising up out of the center of Nothing and Silence.”Of course, Merton goes on to say, “If I am still present “myself,” this I recognize as an obstacle about which I can do nothing unless He Himself removes the obstacle.” In other words, I am in many ways powerless to return to the Sacred Word, to let go of the attractive thoughts; I still worship my own thinking, no matter how much trouble it has gotten me into in the past. I must make every effort, gently, to let go, and at the same time I must turn the entire prayer period over to a Higher Power. As Matt said, “I don’t know how you’re gonna fix that.  Good luck.”  The answer is, of course, that I am NOT going to fix it.  Only God can fix it.  I am, as Carl Jung reminded Rowland Hazard, Beyond Human Aid, and unless locked up, may die or go permanently insane (without a spiritual awakening). 

Belle Isle, like Central Park, was designed by Frederick Law Olmsted

Read about Olmsted and Belle Isle, including the rumor that he said, "I know nothing about the place" HERE

This past weekend, we took a road trip in Cream Puff, the 1984 Cadillac El Dorado I have owned for ten years now. The Jack Carrick song “One More Ride in the Cadillac” was going through my head the entire time – and I frequently sang bits of it out loud as we drove around western Michigan, munching on blueberries and visiting historic Underground Railroad sites, watching large families, descendants of tall blond Dutch Reform settlers, with seven or eight kids named Ezra or Hosea or Haggai, eat ice cream together. That song did not make it onto the Wildflower EP which Jack released a couple of years ago, but it’s another one of the songs from his “breakup” album, which is full of sweetly poignant songs of regret, chronicling the loss of his first love. 

Listen to Wildflower by Jack Carrick 

Just before our weekend getaway, we went to Belle Isle with Steven, where he told me his own nostalgic stories of visiting the conservatory, either by himself to sit and think and write poetry, or with the ex-fiancee he was supposed to marry in the Kirk o’ the Hills, a super fancy Episcopal church in the middle of West Bloomfield. He never did marry that gal, but Insane Clown Posse did use Kirk o’ the Hills to film part of their famous music video, “Where’s God when Sh*t Goes Down?” a poignant lament of an unanswered question which all religions struggle to answer.  

Watch ICP "Where's God?" with scenes of broken-down Detroit and the beautiful Kirk o' the Hills

"Where's God when Sh*t Goes Down?"

Why do such terrible things happen to good people?  I once asked Matt Beall this question, and in his great wisdom, he gave me the only real and true answer that exists:  “They just happen,” he said.

My sweet sage in South Haven

 Stephen Colbert told Anderson Cooper that he had learned to be grateful for the terrible things that happened to him (even the things he desperately wished had not happened, most especially the death of his father and two brothers in a plane crash when he was ten years old) because his suffering made him more able to empathize and be present to the suffering of others. Watch the interview in a link below:

"Stephen Colbert Moves Anderson Cooper to Tears with Powerful Words About Grief"
 Steven Colbert is Catholic, and identifies his own suffering with the suffering of Christ on the cross – something all Catholics are encouraged to try. Thomas Merton also makes this identification  when he recalls his own debauched first (and only) year at Cambridge: “In all this,“ he writes of his plunge into hedonism and dissipation, “I was stamping the last remains of spiritual vitality out of my own soul, and trying with all my might to crush and obliterate the image of the divine liberty that had been implanted in me by God. With every nerve and fiber of my being I was laboring to enslave myself in the bonds of my own intolerable disgust.”  Every alcoholic and addict will identify with these words. Indeed, as Merton adds, “There is nothing new or strange about the process.”

The newness comes with Merton’s next sentence: “But what people do not realize is this is the crucifixion of Christ: in which He dies again and again in the individuals who were made to share the joy and the freedom of His grace, and who deny Him.” So even when, or perhaps most especially when we create our own hell, this is Christ crucified.  And like the sh*t that goes down in the ICP song, “it just happens,” and we are powerless to stop it until we reach out for help.

Which brings me back to the connection between letting go of thoughts during Centering Prayer and my Cadillac.  Thomas Keating teaches us the four R’s – Resist no thought, Retain no thought, React to no thought, Return ever-so-gently to the Sacred Word.  

We had a “for sale” sign on the Cadillac when we were at Belle Isle.  $2850. After spending thousands of dollars for a remanufactured Jasper motor and a rebuilt transmission, I really don’t want to put any more money into it. It needs new trim pieces, a new headliner, a new rubber seal around the sunroof, and the electrical system seems like it’s threatening to go out at any time. A man came up to the car, his eyes alight (later I realized he had been smoking weed, watching the ripples on the Detroit River, before we drove up).  “My dad had this exact Cadillac! He took me and my brother on a road trip down to Texas!”  He offered us 2500 dollars cash and we accepted, exchanging phone numbers and making an appointment to meet at the licensing office Monday morning.All weekend I was singing that song about one more ride, feeling sad and nostalgic.  I tried to think of Cream Puff as a thought in the Centering Prayer period: “Retain no Cadillac,” I would say to myself.  I even tried to compare it to the kenosis of Jesus, which we try to emulate in both Centering Prayer and in our lives. “Though he was God, he did not think of equality with God as something to cling to” (Philippians 2:6). Though my Cadillac was amazing, and got me through hard times when my kids were teenagers, and though everyone who had owned an old Cadillac, from my former therapist to my stepson, understood the allure, the feeling of driving a boat or riding on a cloud, though even people who had initially scoffed, like my son who initially said it was a “grandma’s car” and ended up driving to the prom in it and writing a song about it, I did not want to think of my Cadillac as something to cling to. I wanted to have the same mind in me as was in Christ Jesus, as Paul tells me I must, I wanted to pray the Merton prayer and believe that my desire to please God, however clumsily, does in fact please Him, so I was willing to let go.

Of course, when I texted the perspective buyer on Sunday, I received the following reply: “I regret to inform you that I became far to [sic] overzealous about the car. As clearer heads have prevailed I am going to have to cancel the deal on the Cadillac – good luck with it.”

My prospective buyer had been restored to sanity. And so have I – the “For Sale” sign is coming down.  After all, we need something to drive around next year – Detroit 2020 in style!

See you in 2020!

The Path to "No Self" at the Henry Ford

The other day we went to visit the Henry Ford Museum. Matt was looking for stuff to do with me and his son, Steven, who is visiting for a week, and they have a Star Trek Exhibit there – the exhibit that actually originated in Seattle, because of Paul Allen, who was obsessed with Star Trek. The exhibit contains everything from the costume worn by Mark “Sarek” Leonard in the original “Journey to Babel” episode to a “KHAAAAAN scream booth” where we were able to re-enact the famous Shatner scream while watching a video of Ricardo Montalban.

Steven enjoying a classic beverage

I was looking at random historical artifacts, like the chair Lincoln was sitting in when he was shot (still has some bloodstains on it), and texted my friend Daren, who asked if there was a copy of Ford’s most famous piece of writing, “The International Jew: The World’s Problem.”  I said of course that was not there – but interestingly enough, this year marks the 100^th anniversary of the publication of Ford’s articles in The Dearborn Independent, and historian Bill McGraw wrote a wonderful piece in The Dearborn Historian, a city-funded historical magazine, for the occasion. Unfortunately, the mayor of Dearborn tried to suppress the article, and McGraw ended up losing his job.

Please do click on the link below to read the piece.  McGraw covers the story masterfully, from Ford’s huge influence on Hitler (he is the only American mentioned in Mein Kampf) to the recent attempts by the Ford family and the Ford Motor Company to make amends (the company sponsored the commercial-free showing of Schindler’s List in 1997; today the board chair of Greenfield Village is Jewish, etc.)

FDR's limousine

I thought the root word of "travel" here was interesting

Read the excellent article about Henry Ford's anti-Semitic views

Examples of captions in the official guide book that present a very simple (often single-sentence) version of a complex story: 

·       the 1978 Deere and Company no-till planter, which is part of the “Innovations in Planting” exhibit. “This planting method, which draws heavily on the use of chemical herbicides, also prevents erosion and conserved water for crop use.”

·       The Rust Cotton Picker – cotton was the last major American crop to be mechanized – "which put millions of African American farm laborers out of work, contributing to their mass migration to northern cities during the 1950s."

I am sure readers can fill in the complex details for themselves.

The piece in the museum that captivated me the most was a Romanticized small statue called something like “abolitionists listening to the story of an escapee.” This little piece sculpted in the 1860s depicts three white men, one of whom looks a lot like William Lloyd Garrison, listening raptly as an African-American woman (holding a baby) speaks to them. Their expressions are affectionate, concerned, horrified, solicitous.  The man who looks like Garrison is seated at a table and appears to be writing as the woman recounts the horrors of her experience. The other figures are standing. There was something about the expressions of the white men that held my attention – I know that today they would doubtless be dismissed as “white saviors” and that Garrison is often unfavorably contrasted with John Brown (there was a wonderful copy of the lithograph of Brown blessing a child as he is led to the gallows), but in that little statue I did not see “white savior” expressions (which I imagine to be smug, self-satisfied and paternalistic) on the faces. Instead, my gaze was held by the apparently genuine compassion and kinship I saw depicted.

Rosa Parks' actual bus

The Chair Lincoln was sitting on when he was shot

In The Heart of Centering Prayer, Cynthia Bourgeault writes “This ‘I’ I am trying so hard to purify, manage, and “realize” – this chief protagonist of my spiritual journey, this lifetime project I’ve somehow taken on, to improve it, find a truer vision of it, dismantle its false self and claim its true self, discover its enneagram type or its spiritual vocation, march it through the spiritual exercises or take down its secret soul messages through dream analysis – this self doesn’t really exist! It is simply the inevitable byproduct of attention flowing in the subject/object configuration, which creates the illusion of solidity in the first place…There is a deeper current of living awareness, a deeper and more intimate sense of belonging, which flows beneath the surface waters of your being and grows stronger and steadier as your attention is able to maintain itself as a unified field of objectless awareness.” (134) This statement implies a completely different experience of God’s presence than anything you can talk or write about. Thinking is of no use here – in fact, it is a huge impediment, as any practitioner of Centering Prayer will tell you, despite Father Keating’s repeated admonition that thoughts are an integral part of the experience.   

My thinking mind wants to categorize, to differentiate, to criticize, to dismiss – most especially, it wants to draw a clear line between myself and the Other, for the purpose of preserving my “false self” and its instinctual needs for power and control, safety and security, and affection and esteem. So much harder is the challenge to accept, to see all parts of the whole at once, to let things come and go, to accept people and events for who and what they are in all their complexity, to #embracetheconstant.

Bon Voyage!

We have arrived in Michigan. We had a great flight. We are staying at Rose and Guy's for the next month, visiting family and friends, relaxing, and celebrating a beautiful wedding in a couple of weeks.

For many years, both separately and together, we have spent 20-30 minutes every morning doing Centering Prayer, an ancient spiritual method laid out by the anonymous author of the medieval text “The Cloud of Unknowing” and revived by a bunch of Trappist monks more than 30 years ago. Now that we are on the road, so to speak, we have added a second “sit,” as it is called. Two 20 minute periods of Centering Prayer are highly recommended by the teachers of the practice.  We sort of cheated before, because Father Keating said that if you are too busy to do 20 minutes twice a day, you can do 30 minutes in the morning. But now we don’t really have an excuse.  I have been reading Cynthia Bourgeault’s book The Heart of Centering Prayer, which emphasizes the importance of the two periods.  (Okay, and I’m a presenter myself, and am always telling people they should do two…)

Centering Prayer is also sometimes called the Prayer of Consent, the Prayer of Simplicity, or the Prayer of the Heart. It is both a relationship with God and a method to deepen that relationship. Instructions can be found here:

https://www.contemplativeoutreach.org/centering-prayer-1

I changed my job on Facebook to "GAP YEAR" and my occupation to "world traveler." 

Having entered into this liminal state, between jobs, between identities, our house rented out, our stuff in storage, I suppose in our minds, we are trying to make a connection between the liminal space between the thoughts in Centering Prayer, the consent to the presence and action of God that is symbolized by the sacred word, and the liminal space we entered when we left Seattle, as we consent to the presence and action of God in our lives every day. 

For us, this consent to the presence and action of God begins with an admission of personal powerlessness.  “Of myself I am nothing; the Father doeth the works.” When we try to wrest happiness and satisfaction from this life by “managing well” or worse, by thinking (!), well, you can imagine the disastrous consequences.  Step One begins with an admission of the inability to manage our own lives. Luckily, we then realize we are “powerless but not helpless” and that when we do reach out for help, we receive it.  But of course we forget this every so often and try to “run the show” – so just like we do in Centering Prayer, we return to a state of “spiritual deflation” and gratitude for the grace the fills our lives every single day.