Skating the dark moon

I am watching the Olympic men's figure skating, one of my favourite things to see. I only get to see figure skating every 4 years, when the Winter Olympics is on. There is something so beautiful about seeing these highly-trained women and men soaring over the ice, effortlessly, forever blurring the line between ballet and skating and flight.

I guess it's that feeling of seeing someone master something, truly master it, until it looks easy. Like the speed skaters, looking so relaxed as they fly around their course faster than a car goes. It's also incredibly beautiful to watch.

I am looking for that sense of ease, of doing something until it is utterly natural and becomes normal. I am beginning to feel this sense of ease about calling the Divine by Her names. It came hard to start with because I didn't know any different, but now feels utterly normal - and I get frustrated when all of the language commonly used for the Divine is male. It's like we're only getting half the story: Godde is so much more than a male, and by cutting out female language we cut out female experience too.

Tonight is the dark moon following the January supermoon, so tonight is a night of deepness, darkness, and depth, perhaps as deep and dark as it can go. Tonight, I will see whether the depth and darkness of the night leads me somewhere with Her. Maybe I can burn with Her dark light, at ease on the ice.

From dust to stardust

From dust you are, and to dust you shall return. Ash Wednesday liturgy

We have calcium in our bones
Iron in our veins
Carbon in our souls
And nitrogen in our brains.
93 percent stardust
With souls made of flames
We are all just stars
With people names. Nikita Gill

These two quotes have been circling around my head over the last couple of days. From dust to dust - 93% stardust. From dust to stardust. Stardust we are, and to stardust we shall return.

This Lent, I want to try to spend time reflecting on the journey I've come on over the last few years. It is an unashamedly feminist journey, so if you want to come too, feel free, but know what you're in for. The more I think about it, the more I believe that I am stardust with a human name, called by Godde to journey with Her, to bear witness to Merlin Stone's famous quote, "In the beginning, God was a woman," and to know the truth, that I am created imago Dei, in Godde's image as a woman in my female flesh and skin and spirit - contrary to so-called "saint" Augustine, who said,

Woman does not possess the image of God in herself but only when taken together with the male who is her head, so that the whole substance is one image. But when she is assigned the role as helpmate, a function that pertains to her alone, then she is not the image of God. But as far as the man is concerned, he is by himself alone the image of God just as fully and completely as when he and the woman are joined together into one.

Augustine, you were wrong and your misogyny has made our journey as women immeasurably harder. Until this vileness is repudiated, women's stories will continue to be lost and men continue to exercise power over women. Women will still be raped, shot, put down, ignored, passed over, and dominated, while this kind of thinking is still accepted.

I have finally come to know that from stardust I came, and to stardust I will return, made in the image of She Who Is, Godde, Wisdom, Sophia, Goddess, Great High One, Hine-nui-e-te-Po, Trinity of Mother, Child and Spirit, creatrix of all that is and is to come, originator and Prime Cause of the big bang. Maybe the big bang was her giving birth to the universe? Interesting idea.

As I said in my last post, I will not be complicit in my own subjugation. This Lent, I intend to reflect on my place in the world and where Godde touches it - and the world - and what I can do to change what I see all around me.

And we're here...

The world is full of light: the lights of the valley below, the twinkly lights on the banister of our balcony that we put up for Advent. Stars. Sunsets. Huge moons that look like great gold pieces. Our new home seems to be illuminated in all sorts of ways, especially with the wonderful afternoon and evening light we get here.

Coming home from work is like coming on a retreat: the total privacy of this house wraps itself around me the moment I walk in the door. And yet, it's on quite a busy road (the main road in and out of our hillside suburb) and it's only 5 minutes to the centre of Lower Hutt and 25 minutes to Wellington (without traffic!). Our living room overlooks the valley and Wellington Harbour, and the view is spectacular. No two days are the same - not even two minutes - and it's always lovely. Even when the storms roll in, we can see the clouds coming in over the water, and we get wrapped in clouds up here. No window is overlooked by any other house: the only windows that look onto the street are the dining room, and they are shielded by native trees. Our bedroom looks out onto the deck, and it's shielded by trees from the street so it's totally private. This house is an introvert's paradise!

Returning to our parish church of St James has been like going home again: returning to liturgy, to good music, to good friends who welcome us back into the family. In some ways its as though we never left but in others, we've learnt new things we can offer St James, and the parish has created new traditions that we're becoming part of. One of them was a lovely surprise last week, on the solemnity of Christ the King, last day of the church's year. It was a solemn high mass, concelebrated by three priests, with millions of candles (more or less!), and incense! Lots and lots of incense! The music was the normal St James sung liturgy, although the priest leading it sang the entire prayer of consecration which we don't usually do. It was fabulous. The only slight drawback from my point of view was that I had laryngitis and literally couldn't make a noise at all - the humour of the hymn choice struck me when we sang "Let all mortal flesh keep silence" - I didn't have a choice! It was a relief to sing "rejoice" today on Advent Sunday!

St James has also always had a strong tradition of getting children involved in the liturgical life of the parish. We hadn't been back three minutes when I was asked to rejoin the choir (which I did with joy), and our daughter was asked to be a Herald. The Herald is a tradition peculiar to St James, where a child carries a taiaha behind the crucifer in all the processionals, and is responsible for reading the opening sentence of the liturgy, and leading the processional of the offertory up to the altar. They wear child-sized liturgical robes. It's a sort of junior server: the next step is serving the altar, and then being crucifer or liturgist. Our daughter very proudly did her first service as Herald a couple of weeks ago, and was very pleased that she got to be Herald on the First Sunday of Advent. Hubby has picked up his camera for the parish again, and has been mixing the sound and running the powerpoint (a new innovation for St James since we left). I've also been writing for the parish magazine again, which was pretty cool.

We've also found outlets for most of our other activities: we've found an archery club in Trentham - the only drawback is that they don't have an indoor range so if the weather's nasty, there's no shooting. However, they do have a clout and field range, which we didn't have in Rotorua. Daughter has Linked from Brownies to Girl Guides here, and has had a wonderful term with Guides here (sewing box came out again for yet more badges!). Hubby has returned to the camera club here, and is rediscovering pottery which he used to do years ago. I'm loving having my friends and professional networks back, and the challenge of what I'm doing at work is really interesting.

So, all in all, the move has worked well. It's good to be back!

Missing liturgy

A while ago, I reflected on whether it was possible to be homesick for a place I have only been once. I concluded it was eminently possible: Canterbury Cathedral has so stamped itself on my heart that I know I will never truly be the same. It is the heart of our ancient faith in England (although not the oldest place of worship there), a place of worship and pilgrimage and seeking for more than 1500 years.

I knew when we came home that it would be difficult to come back from the visceral, whole-of-body, whole-spirit experience of cathedral worship in the UK: where the very stones seem to be painted with prayer and the whole place shimmers with the organ and the bells and the singing; incense, beeswax, body and blood. Immersive church, where everything is done excellently, reverently, and with holy purpose.

Sure, it's not perfect: they've only just figured out that women are called to the episcopate too (we're 25 years ahead of them there!) and the language is seriously patriarchal - but there is hope in the movements of inclusive church that that will change. What won't is the desire to do all things "decently and in order", with love and passion and skill.

What I have realised is that I need that liturgy done with love and passion and skill. I need the music and love and prayer and holy purpose. I need the Office, the daily round of prayer, painted on my heart like light through stained glass. I need this. Liturgy done poorly, bad music, trite lyrics - I cannot separate myself from it. It becomes like sandpaper on my soul, grinding me in all my most tender places.

Some people might say this is me being overly sensitive, too "high", not being "of the people" - snobbish, even. But for me, worship is not of the people. It is our gift to God, and should it not be the best of what we are capable? It should be the best music, the best singing, the best words, trusting that God, by some alchemy of her own, will make them worthy of her worthiness, for nothing we offer God will ever be enough. But it should be beautiful.

And when it is not, then it is time to listen to what my heart says, what my spirit knows. I cannot return to Canterbury, but our pilgrimage there has shown me my heart. I need to be honest to myself and I cannot hide any longer.

Maundy Thursday

And here we are again. Maundy Thursday. Feet are washed. Church is stripped. Pictures are covered. John Rutter's Requiem and Taverner's wonderfully emotive Song for Athene have been playing. Prayers on the floor of the living room with a lighted candle. Tears in the Garden. Songs at the table. Blazing moonlight and a touch of frosty dew.

Lent update

So, Lent. How's that going, then?

Followers (?) may remember that this year's Lenten task was in three parts:

1. Writing a divine office for Sophia
2. Reading Sophia: the hidden Christ of Thomas Merton
3. Exercise

Well, given it's the second full week of Lent, it's probably time for an update.

The divine office for Sophia is proving an amazing blessing. I am writing one office per day: so far I have a complete week of morning prayer, and nearly a complete week of evening prayers too. Writing the litanies for each of these services seems to being out something rich from inside. Sophia is blessing this project and I am profoundly grateful.

The Lent book is proving more problematic. It is very dense: I can only read a little at a time, otherwise it gives me mental indigestion! However, I am determined to finish it during Lent. It's good - but dense!

And the exercise - working most days. Just have to keep at that one.

From dust to dust

"Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return," said the priest as he marked my face with the ashes of last year's palm crosses, mixed with holy oil. So, Lent begins again, the cycling back towards the Journey to Jerusalem with Jesus.

Last year, I undertook to reflect throughout my Lent on this blog. It was an interesting discipline and it made me stop each night to look back on the day, the good and the bad things. I didn't quite manage every single day but was fairly close. This year's Lenten discipline is slightly different. Lent is about opening myself to God's goodness in new and different ways, looking for the light of Sophia's hand opening in my life.

So this year, I have a Lenten task: to write a Divine Office for Sophia, using the Sophia translation of the psalms that Mother Laura Grimes sent to me. I made a start tonight after the Ash Wednesday service (which was lovely - held at St Faith's Ohinemutu, combined with the Catholics and Methodists, and beautifully bilingual!), and have finished a Monday morning prayer office. I'm going to give it a test run tomorrow morning to see how it goes.The format of the Divine Office is clearly set throughout history - all I'm doing is tinkering with the translations.

I'll also be undertaking some physical as well as spiritual exercise each day.

The other part of a Benedictine Lent is to read a study book right through. I had already started Sophia: the hidden Christ of Thomas Merton by Christopher Pramuk, but had come to a grinding halt with it a couple of months ago: it's very interesting but quite dense! I am going to read this as my Lent book, and if I finish it before the end of Lent there is another study book waiting in the wings that I haven't started yet, but has been eyeing me up from the bookshelf in my library.

I'm interested to see how this threefold discipline: writing and praying liturgy, reading, and exercise, will help me open myself more to God's darkness and love.

Homesick for pilgrimage

I've often wondered whether it was possible to be truly homesick for a place that isn't really home. Last night, I got my answer: absolutely.

Part of our trip to the UK was a pilgrimage. We visited three cathedrals and several holy sites while we were over there. We started our pilgrimage on Christmas Day in NZ's northernmost Cathedral, Holy Trinity Auckland, which was pretty special as it was 200 years to the day since the preaching of the first Christian sermon in this land. We continued it with English cathedrals and holy places.

York Minister is jaw-droppingly beautiful. The feral GPS took us right into the centre of the old city within the walls - to the point that we nearly ran into the pedestrian-only zone through the Shambles (oops); but as a way to see the Cathedral, driving up Museum Street to the York Information Centre pretty much can't be beaten. The Minster just loomed up out of the frost, with the morning light behind it, shimmering on the golden stone, and the Heart of Yorkshire tracery in the Great Window catching the sun. Inside, it's even better. I literally had to scrape my jaw off the floor when we walked into the nave and looked up. I have never seen anything so lovely as those pillars of stone reaching for the sky, and the gilded bosses and ribbed ceiling. We did one of the guided tours, which was very interesting but quite long. I loved the crypt, with the tomb of St William of York (very simple, a single block of stone with a candle burning on it), and the ancient paintings. We went back later on that day for evensong in the quire. Candles, choir (a visiting choir - the Minster's one was on holiday but they were very good), and that thunderously gorgeous organ. Worship was a whole body experience: the feel of the organ, the smell of wax and candles, the music, the silence. Prayers offered for the prayer intentions left in the Minster. Very down to earth and grounded in reality, even in the midst of the glorious music.

Sheffield Cathedral on New Year's Day: very quiet and peaceful. Reminded me a lot of the feel of Wellington Cathedral of St Paul although it's much much older and looks nothing like Wellington's "big pink sarcophagus"! It's not one of the "famous" ones but it was very lovely. We liked the fact you could see the Norman, Gothic, and later additions very clearly, and it had a gorgeous chapel to the Holy Spirit that I particularly liked. It also had the coolest of all the nativities we saw: made of Sheffield steel, about 1.5m high, and somehow the makers had made that steel very winsome and gentle.

Grace Dieu Priory was not on our original itinerary: my sister-in-law suggested it as it was just up the road from their place near Loughborough. We got there by a very cold walk through English woods in the snow, which was interesting in itself: I was quite surprised by the lack of undergrowth, bushes etc - just trees, and they seemed fairly widely spaced. I don't think it was deliberately planted but it had a "managed" feel. The priory itself is a ruin, but it was beautiful. The stonework was all iced with thick snow, and the walls rose out of snowy fields. The late afternoon light was very kind to the stonework, and the whole place had a kind of breathless hush, almost as though it was waiting for something. It had the feel of a "thin place": it knew it had once been holy ground, and the sense of consecration was still there. It was very cold! Having the deep snow helped the sense of hush too. The pond beneath the priory was frozen solid (small daughter threw a good-sized rock just to make sure and it skidded for several metres!).

Most people wouldn't consider Stonehenge a holy place, but I do. Most modern scholarship seems to think that it, and the landscape around it, was holy to the prehistoric peoples, and that Stonehenge was a place of worship. I certainly sensed that when I was there: It is so old, so unbelievably old, and it was in use for over 1000 years for whatever the ancients did there. It has left a mark on both the physical landscape and the landscape of Spirit. I spent some time trying to listen to the place (rather difficult when it's swarming with tourists!). I got the sense that Stonehenge isn't quite sure what it is anymore, but that when it's quiet, after dark or at the turnings of the year, it would go back in time a long long way. It would be a place of awe, and to me, that's what worship is: finding the awe, the marks of our recognition of the numinous, in places, times, music, art, and people - the places where God has touched us and we have touched God.

I suspect the National Gallery isn't on a list of holy places for many people either, but there were so many wonderful works of art, many of them altarpieces or great artist's explorations of religious themes that it was definitely part of our pilgrimage. So many artists, so many places to go in the world through the art, so many themes of love and beauty, power and betrayal, peace and war and everything in between. Highlights too numerous to mention, but seeing Leonardo da Vinci and Raphael in the same building was pretty amazing, not to mention Holbein, Constable, Turner, Degas, and a whole lot more.

Westminster Abbey was a different kind of holy: the holiness of the ordinary, the holiness that we find through living our lives and contributing to society. It also turned into a very personal moment, when I found a shrine to one of my ancestors, and the tomb of another (a Dean of Westminster). Did not expect that at all! Partly because of the number of people there, it was hard to get a sense of the Abbey as a working church, except at the prayers on the hour (when one of the Canons requested everyone to be still for a few moments while they offered prayer). We didn't go to the prayers at St Edward the Confessor's tomb, although I did spend a few moments reflecting there. I found it hard to get a sense of the architecture too, because there were so many monuments and grave markers - I found some old friends, like CV Stanford, Howells, Dryden, Keats, Shakespeare, and rather endearingly, CS Lewis (no Tolkien though). Also Queens Elizabeth and Mary (in a shared grave, rather beautifully). Henry V, and Henry IV.

The jewel in the crown, and the finale of our pilgrimage, was Canterbury Cathedral itself. We were staying in the beautiful, peaceful Cathedral Lodge within the precincts of the Cathedral - it was tasteful, comfortable, and luxuriously beautiful in a very understated way. What was amazing was how the noise of the city just disappeared when you went through the walls into the precinct. The old city walls are stone and incredibly thick: the grounds are almost silent. The Cathedral opened on us like a revelation as we came through the gates from Quenensgate. After a very late lunch we went in. The sense of prayer and Presence hits you the moment you walk through the doors - there is a holy hush in the building not of any person's making. It just is. We were blessed enough to arrive about 15mins after Saturday evensong had begun (we got there about 3.30pm), so there was a tide of glorious music and resonant organ everywhere. We went to explore the crypt, beginning with praying at the Martyrdom of St Thomas Becket, and then visiting the various chapels in the crypt - all with evensong washing over us, even through the thick stone of the ancient Norman crypt. There are some very ancient wall paintings in one of the chapels that gave us a tiny sense of the riot of colour the Cathedral would have once been, but it was the atmosphere of the place that kept stilling us. The place where St Thomas' body lay, in the Chapel of St Mary of the Undercroft; the place where his tomb was before they built the shrine (that Henry VIII pulled down). The single candle that burns where the shrine once was. And of course the tomb of Edward the Black Prince. Over 1500 years of continuous prayer has marked this place. The very stones pray and praise.

The next day we went to choral eucharist there, in the quire, with the light blue and gold and red through the stained glass. Incense. Singing. Organ. Psalms sung to chant like I've never heard them before. Processions of readers, the Gospels, holy gifts. Receiving communion at the High Altar of Canterbury Cathedral. The taste of port on my lips, the holy body and blood. More singing, and hearing the purity of those boys' voices soaring in the Anthem.... Prayers, very down to earth, for ordinary blessings, ordinary pains, ordinary joys. Being encouraged to pray the Lord's Prayer in our own language - I started in Maori but got lost amongst all the English! Blessing the water for the holy water font. Finishing with Psalm 150 for the Recessional, soaking the stones in praise and prayer yet again.

And at the end of the service, gathering with Canon Nick in the Chapel of Our Lady of the Undercroft for our pilgrim blessing, giving thanks for the journey we had made and the one we were to make home. Holding Canterbury specially in my heart, trying not to cry as we left. None of us wanted to leave. Trying to carry Canterbury with me, St Thomas, the Martyrdom, the crypt, and the praise soaked into the stones.

Can I be homesick for a place I don't belong to? Yes, I can. I'm homesick for Canterbury. I am homesick for the Presence of that place, for the stillness, the silence, the beauty of the worship, the smell of incense, the thunder of the organ and boys' voices soaring in praise. Beautiful stone and light and glass. The warmth and kindness of the welcome we received from everyone. The place of martyrdom, destination of millions of pilgrims like us through the centuries. The place marked by God's presence and our recognition of God's presence.

Now I need to find those places here, find a way to bring it home to smalltown New Zealand, land of sheep, green fields and bright sunshine. It's going to be a long job.

And the truth comes out

Okay, there's a reason that the blog was a bit sparse leading into December and so far this year. We were planning, and executing, a major family holiday to the UK, and didn't want to splash it around digital media that we were away. I had no mental space for anything but finishing up work before Christmas and finalising arrangements for us being away: packing, booking stuff, sorting out keys for house-sitters etc, so the blog suffered a little!

We left Rotorua on Christmas Eve, driving up to Auckland, where we stayed with hubby's parents in the place they were house-sitting. We had a family Christmas with his family and my sister-in-law's family, which was very chilled out - barbeque and salad for Christmas is pretty much perfect here. Hubby, daughter and I went to Holy Trinity Cathedral for the Christmas Day sung eucharist, which was very special as it was the 200th anniversary, to the day, of the arrival of Christianity to New Zealand, when Samuel Marsden accepted an invitation from the Bay of Islands chiefs to preach to them in Oihi Bay. And for the cynics amongst us, Marsden spoke fairly good Maori and was good friends with a couple of chiefs who already spoke good English, so yes the message would have got across! It was special being in our northenmost cathedral for that day - had we not been going to the UK we would have gone up to Oihi Bay to be part of the celebrations. It was also very special to spend Christmas at Holy Trinity, as one of my old friends is the Dean there and it was lovely to see her and to launch our pilgrimage there.

We flew out on Boxing Day in blazing summer sunshine, travelling via Sydney, Abu Dhabi, and finally into Manchester. The journey was long, with very minimal breaks between flights, and I had to keep track of three passports, 9 boarding passes (3 each), four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves, and a pukeko in a ponga tree.... We figured it out that we spent 27 hours in the air and about 36 hours in transit gate to gate, and somehow we landed on the day after we left. Don't anyone try to explain that to me - as far as I am concerned it's all witchcraft!

However, the "day after we left" was somewhat different to the day we left. It was about 27degC when we left Auckland; Manchester was about -1degC with around 12-15cm of snow on the ground. Yes, snow. And 2-3cm of compacted ice on the roads, most of which hadn't been swept because the snow had only just stopped falling. Once we had collected our rental car (a Peugeot 208 - very nice to drive!), we discovered that the feral GPS wanted to take us to Sheffield over the Peak District, and the road was closed. So we had to find an alternative and the GPS wouldn't co-operate - we navigated nearly blind in the snow and took the long route from Manchester, up towards Leeds on the M67, and then down the M1 (once we found it) - the M1 was a little startling as the usual 3 lanes were reduced to around two-ish (because they'd only swept and salted some of it).

It was a slow trip to Sheffield, and when we got there, Feral GPS took us up a steepish lane that had not been swept and had about 5cm of compacted ice on it - by the time we discovered how steep it was, we couldn't turn around. The traction control on the Peugeot was working overtime, and we needed a push up some of it... And then we had to dig out hubby's grandma's driveway of about 20-25cm of fresh snow so we could park the car.

So a bit of an eventful start to the trip. Gosh it was cold!! And it was dark when we landed at just after 7am - the sun didn't rise until 8ish, and it was dark by 4pm. It felt weird that the sun at 9am in New Zealand is higher in the sky than at any time during any of the English days!

More to come on the trip later....

Still here...

The calendar reads 15 December and it was Gaudete Sunday yesterday - somehow my brain looks at those two things and thinks, "Does not compute!" I'm not quite sure how it's got to the last working week of the year already. This year grew wings and just took off!

In my last post, I was thinking about little boxes in the spice drawer. Well, now there are little boxes everywhere. My pantry is the tidiest and cleanest it's been for 6 months, and all the kitchen cupboards have all been cleaned and tidied. I've been working steadily around all those little nooks and crannies that seem to create dirt, even if dirt never gets near them!

I've also been doing lots of practice with The Thing, my lovely compound bow (okay, that's my name for it), and my groupings have been getting quite close. The next piece of kit that's on the radar is a proper release aid - I've got a wrist release and want to move to a hand-held one. I tried one out the other day and it was gorgeous: the only problem was that it was for three fingers only and my pinky felt like it was waving uselessly around. I prefer the four-finger ones because all of my hand feels engaged and there's less pull through the wrist. Now to find one I like! Unfortunately the one I found that I liked doesn't come in a four-finger model....

Small daughter has had a good time recently, with another gold medal in her final trampolining competition of the year, and a wonderful report from school. Hubby has nearly finished trolling through the piles of final marking for his students, and I am trying to get my desk cleared before the office closes on Friday. The directors decided that they would give us the three days before Christmas as paid days off that aren't leave, which is rather nice. Good timing too - can finish off those last-minute preparations before Christmas!

Pottering, and potting

This weekend was full of doings. I've had a list of things that I want to get done, and we knocked off quite a few of them. The most satisfying was organising our herb and spice drawer. Years ago, we got a whole lot of round pots (the sort you used to get Chinese takeaways in when we were kids) and put all the herbs and spices in them. We needed a lot of pots because we have a lot of herbs and spices and we buy them in bulk because it's cheaper (and we use a lot of flavours in cooking).

The problem started when we moved to Rotorua. The drawer we use here for herbs and spices is smaller than the one we had - narrower and not so deep. We had to stack pots two high, and they stuck on the drawers, the lids flicked off, herbs and spices were self-combining in unplanned ways in the bottom of the drawer. It wasn't working. So we've been watching for a while until our favourite little stacking boxes with clip-on lids came on sale again and we got little pots and boxes. We relocated herbs. I wrote lots of neat little sticker labels. Boxes won't come undone. They stack - neatly. The whole thing looks like a work of art and it is so easy to find the herbs we want when cooking now.

We also weedmatted and barked another chunk of the front garden, I tidied the bathroom cupboards, and pottered around making things. Planted a lot more herbs (we like them fresh as well as dried!), and am hoping the oregano will stand up and be counted soon: it's looking a bit dismal...

Yesterday was also my first time shooting my compound since it became mine. I bought it off a club member who was selling it for her son: it was an astonishingly good buy because it came complete with arrows, sights, bow bag, release aid, quiver - the whole lot, pretty much. I shot it outside at 25m - my first time outside and at that distance - and it felt good. Took a while before I got the sights in but then the groupings began to come together and it started to get tidier. I love the total presence that I have to be to the bow and the arrow: it is very contemplative. The more still I am inside, the better my shot. At least that part of archery is not something I have to learn!

This coming weekend is the welcome of our new Bishop to the Bay of Plenty part of the Diocese of Waiapu. Looking forward to meeting him, and it's quite appropriate that it's on Advent Sunday too!

Contemplation and finding ghosts

Today was an interesting day.

This morning's 8am service (which we finally made! Yay!) was an oasis of peace, focused liturgy, and a wonderfully challenging sermon on the necessity for being open to change and challenge, and finding the flexibility to allow that to happen even if it isn't that comfortable. It was a real affirmation for me that I am on the right path in seeking Sophia, because it isn't comfortable. It feels awkward, difficult, strange, but at the same time, it is a large spacious place that I am invited into. I know it's right for me to be open to her and to follow her, but I also know it's awkward for other people sometimes...

From that, we went straight to the range. One of the things I'm loving about archery is that it is not something you can do while thinking about other things. It requires total focus, total presence to the body, the bow, and the arrow. It is very contemplative in some ways. I was shooting recurve again today, which I haven't done for a couple of weeks, and it felt very different. I was just beginning to get the feel of a compound, and switching back was a bit of a challenge, but a good challenge. I was focusing on body form: on how my body moves and stabilises and balances through and after the draw. It felt good, but what I was truly surprised by was that I didn't feel at all sore after it, and the recurve was really easy to draw after the compound I've been using.

And this afternoon, I flew down to Wellington: I am delivering a course here over the next couple of days (standing in for a colleague who is sick). It feels a little odd to be back here - I am staying in Plimmerton to be closer to the venue, so not back in the Hutt, but it was strange driving through Wellington from the airport. There are new roads and even a new tunnel that I didn't recognise - and we've only been gone not quite three years. So here I am: in a motel room in Plimmerton, hearing fireworks going off directly across the road, and thinking how odd it is to be back, to be here but not here, to see these places I grew up in, but not belong. It feels like a ghost of my former life in some ways.

I hope they finish up with those fireworks soon: I think I need to go to bed.Com I need to remember to account for traffic here....!

A modern day pilgrim

Pilgrimage.

The word sounds a bit old-fashioned, a bit musty, a bit redolent of old schoolrooms and tattered copies of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales—those wonderfully funny (and sometimes slightly naughty!) stories told by a group of pilgrims in the Middle Ages, travelling together on the famous Winchester-Canterbury pilgrimage route to the shrine of St Thomas à Becket, the murdered Archbishop of Canterbury. How could this possibly be relevant in New Zealand in the 21st century, so far from all the famous pilgrimage routes of Europe (and the theology that said that pilgrims earned merit in God’s eyes by visiting holy places)?

We decided to find out. We joined a pilgrimage organised by Whakatane Parish to the sites associated with Wiremu Tamihana and Tārore: one of the first converts to Christianity in the 1830s, the peacemaker during the Waikato Land Wars; and the little girl who was murdered at Wairere Falls, and whose copy of a Māori translation of the Gospel of Luke was stolen and touched the hearts of her murderer, her father, and the great chief Te Rauparaha with the message of holy peace.

I began to better understand those pilgrims in the Canterbury Tales: travelling together on a bus wasn’t quite the same as riding on horseback, but the same sense of camaraderie and enjoyment, the same urge to tell stories, to learn about each other, seemed to be as present in these modern-day pilgrims as in the ones in Chaucer’s time. Partly it was a way to pass the time between sites, but it was also a chance to find out how we came to be there, to get to know each other, and to share our joy in God’s love.

Praying at the very simple little grave of Tārore, standing next to that little white cross and picket fence out in the glorious spring sunshine of the Waikato is probably a different experience from praying in the chapel of St Thomas, but nevertheless, it was a “still place”, with all the wildflowers blowing in the breeze and the sun soft on our faces, and the sense of this small girl’s love for God and message of gentleness and forgiveness close all around us. We could see the Wairere Falls directly across from her grave, some 10-12km away, and had a sense of the sad journey her father had to bring her body home and his own struggle not to seek revenge for her murder, but to be faithful to the way of peace he had chosen.

The stained glass windows in All Saints’ Matamata commemorate both Wiremu Tamihana and Tārore in a stunning, modern style. There she sits, at the base of the Falls under the kowhāi, with tui and piwakawaka (fantails) fluttering about her, reading her Gospel. Another window nearby shows St Francis preaching to the birds of New Zealand that same message of compassionate love and peaceful courage.

St Thomas à Becket has had pilgrims coming to his grave for nearly a thousand years, after he was murdered by a greedy king for standing up for the faith and the church of his time. Tārore died in 1836, on her way to the mission school in Tauranga, after it was moved from the location near her home, and her grave has been a place of prayer ever since.

Both Thomas’ and Tārore’s stories inspire us to journey with them in the way of God, the way of compassion and love, the struggle to forgive and find peace even in the midst of bitter pain and loss. They tell us that listening to and learning from the saints who have gone before us is important—not to put them on pedestals, but to hear their human voices, their frustrations and their triumphs, and inspiring us with their steadfast courage in the face of loss and risk as they travelled with God in their own day, and as we travel with God in ours and find our own courage and hope with them.

Pilgrimage in 2014? Oh, I think so.

This article first appeared in the St Luke's Parish (Rotorua) magazine Reaching Out, St Luke's Day/Advent edition 2014

Octave stretches

It's the end of the Octave of St Therese. As she is my patron and one of my deepest inspirations, I keep her feast as a full First Class Feast, with an octave (which also includes St Francis and St Bruno, which is rather nice). I was deeply disappointed to find that the NZ Lectionary doesn't even have her feast day in it and so there are no designated readings, and the Order of St Helena Breviary that I use doesn't commemorate her either. I find this surprising because she was an amazing woman who has influenced spirituality in a whole new direction in the 20th and 21st centuries. Once you get past the early, saccharine interpretations of her and start to find her depth, she is deeply courageous and enormously inspiring. I had to go online to find readings and prayers for her, but it was worth it.

So, what has come out of these days of reflection in her light and in the context of her friendship? More movement towards Sophia, the One who is calling me, and a deep frustration that when I go to worship, all I ever hear is "he, he, Lord, Lord." It always makes me think about Jesus' saying, "Not all who call me "Lord, Lord" will enter the kingdom of heaven" (just so I'm not accused of proof-texting, I know that is not the context of what Jesus was saying, but there is a resonance for me). I find it so disappointing that the entire Wisdom tradition and all of the tradition of Jesus as Sophia's messenger lying squarely in the Wisdom tradition has been so completely forgotten and buried under a great stinking pile of androcentrism and patriarchy.

So where next? Home by another way? And what does that really mean for me, for my vocation, my faith? What is the "other way"? And who is Home?

A taste of Benedictine hospitality

Some people would think that the name "the Community of Solitude" is a bit of an oxymoron. How can you have a community of solitaries, or have solitude when you're a community? I must admit there have been times I have asked myself that too. I understand a little better now. 

The last week of July was the Convocation of the Community in Minnesota, USA. We were the guests of St John's Abbey, a Benedictine Community in Collegeville (home of the Liturgical Press - the joke in the community was that it had to be be a Benedictine abbey because it had two bookshops as well as the library!). The setting was beautiful, but the convocation even

The huge bell tower at St John's

more so. 16 members of our Community gathered, sharing the daily Office with the monks of St John's (singing the Office with over 120 monks in choir four times a day is something I will never forget), meeting, talking, praying, laughing together, going for walks, and just being together showed me how rich and how deep our COS community life is. We have a "virtual" community most of the time, sharing our lives through our prayer, email and skype, but seeing them face to face and sharing their hearts was a gift I treasure. 

Our solitude enriched our time together: we shared the "fruits of our solitude" at the dinner table, in our meetings together, and in our general chats. 

We each pray the Office ourselves, but sharing that prayer together made it immeasurably richer and deeper. I use the Breviary of the Order of St Helena in my private Office; the St John's one was different to what I am used to but doing it as a corporate community activity changed it in ways I didn't expect. 

The stained glass in the Abbey church

The pace St John's chant the psalms is a lot slower than I am used to, and it took a bit to get used to. However, I began to find that giving the psalms space like that allowed them to speak more deeply. I also appreciated the sermons of the monk-priests of St John's during the daily Mass: they were very short (no more than 5-10 minutes at the most) but they were profound in their meaning. 

Statue of St John in Abbey church baptistry
(courtesy Br Thomas Andrew COS Cam)

The best one came for me on the feast of Sts Joachin and Anne (parents of the Virgin Mary), when the priest reflected that he had had the same Gospel reading just two weeks' previously: the last time he preached to the Community! He then reflected that our monastic lives are like that: recircling around the same truths, coming closer and closer like a moth to a candleflame. We persevere, as he said, "in the good days, and bad days, and sometimes just days." That phrase captured everyone: choir is a very solemn, beautiful, formal place but there was a ripple of smiles as everyone there completely understood what he meant. Often it is just days, when we walk faithfully, but may not see too many results. It's like the light moving through the stained glass: it looks different at every time of day, but some days it stands out more than others. Some days the Office is full of light and life and joy: other days it's an act of sheer faith to keep going, keep praying, keep singing, keep hoping. 

The stained glass in the Abbey church, viewed from the monks' choir
This is completely huge - this photo cannot capture the size and majesty of it.

St Benedict with his Rule and the ravens

I found myself profoundly touched by the art around the Abbey. It felt like the fruits of the monks' contemplations was made physical, made visible, for us all to share. The fierce St John in the baptistry stood guard over the entrance into the church, but the gentle St Benedict in the Abbey university grounds invited us in to share with him in his hospitality, life, and love. He looked young, passionate, warm, and caring: inviting us to share the feast of his Rule and the richness of study and prayer and laughter. I liked his rolled-up sleeves: Ora te Labora: prayer and work (or to work is to pray).

One thing I found quite amazing was how much fun we had together. It started from the moment I was met at Minneapolis-St Paul Airport (after a 36 hour journey!) by two of my Brothers, and it didn't stop all the time we were together. There was a lot of "monastic humour": one of my personal favourites was when we were having a COS photo taken after Office one night. The person taking the photo couldn't figure out if it had been taken because the camera didn't make any noise: one of the Brothers piped up, "That's because it's a Cistercian camera!" 

Returning home, all 36 hours of it, was quite tough. I was glad to see my family again, but I had grown even closer to my monastic family than before and I miss the regular prayer in choir at St John's, shared with the St John's monks and my own Brothers and Sisters. But I return to my cell, and keep the faith quietly in the regular things - the "just days" of my life - and find in those things the courage I need to keep loving and praying, being faithful in the big stuff and the small daily things. 

I suspect there will be more "fruits of solitude" from my time at Convocation popping up. I had to make a start with the simple basic things, and I promised some of the photos!

More fifth mark and other things

Today was a productive day, in and around regular rain showers. Daughter and I tidied up the detritus of her term at school around her desk and under her bed, and then dodged the rain to sort out the strip of garden behind the shed to plant some of the herb and pansy seeds. This means two sets of gardening in two weeks which is pretty much a record for me!

It went quite well because we'd headed off to Bunnings first and acquired a proper hoe and hand digging and clearing tools, along with some compost and a bag of bark. The compost went on the garden we cleared where the seeds were going, and the bark on another bit that hubby cleared around the front. I was stunned how fast the hoe sorted out the weeds - 10 minutes and most of them were gone, with another ten or so to sort out the ones with stubborn root systems using the hand tools. It felt pretty good too!

Now the interesting bit will be whether the seeds grow or not.

Last night we took daughter to The Lego Movie, which was a heap of fun, with masses of references that kept hubby and I cracking up laughing. The story was surprisingly strong, well scripted, and very clever. Probably my favourite bit was when the main characters were on a pirate ship attempting to build a space ship but didn't have a hyperdrive (this is Lego, remember - you can build anything!) and the Lego version of the Millennium Falcon arrived (complete with Lego C-3PO, Lego Han Solo and other characters from Star Wars) and Lego Batman jumped ship and stole their hyperdrive... only in Lego, seriously. There was also strategic placement of "human relics" including a piece of old sticking plaster, a scalpel blade, and glue.... And a number of annoyingly catchy songs. All in all, a good night out and one we will definitely look to get on DVD. 5 stars from me.

And the rest of the Easter Triduum, I hear you say? Good Friday liturgy was quiet, reflective, and well done. Holy Saturday felt empty and cold, and Easter Day was good - although I missed singing the Alleluias and the Gloria again (they did 476 so we didn't even use the Gloria at all!).

Tonight was spent salivating over the gorgeous A4 Pacific-class steam locomotives in the fascinating BBC documentary Locomotion: Dan Snow's history of railways, which we've been enjoying on ChoiceTV recently. The beautiful Mallard and her sisters still have the power to make me drool. They look so sleek and so wonderfully fast. I seem to remember it was one of the few really famous classes of steam loco that we didn't have a model of when I was a girl, but it was the one we all wanted!

The end and the beginning

Tonight is the end of Lent - not the Lenten fast, that's Holy Saturday, but Lent now merges into the Triduum, the Three Days, beginning with the Mandatum (the footwashing) and Last Supper service. Which our parish decided not to do. They had a Seder, but I'd rather celebrate our own tradition rather than steal someone else's.

So we did it ourselves. We did our own Footwashing at home - obviously couldn't have the Last Supper because none of us is a priest, but you don't need to be a priest to wash feet. So we all washed each other's feet, and it was really lovely. I had preceded it by reading the Gospel up until the arrest and Peter's denial - we will pick up the trial and scourging in the morning before the Good Friday vigil at 12.

And we covered all the statues and icons at home (which we do every year), and now all I can see is the black on the wall where the tapestry of Mary hangs, and it keeps drawing my eye like a big black hole. The absence, the emptiness.

I will do a vigil myself because the church isn't doing that either. And tomorrow, the darkest day of the year. I loved the vigils at St James': the silence, the open tabernacle, the candles, and watching the church being stripped of everything at the end of the Last Supper was so powerful - no candles, no altar cloth, all the pictures covered, even the sanctuary light out. When I came for the vigil, even if I had nothing to say to him in the Garden, I was watching. The stripped church felt cold and empty, but the chapel blazed with candles and Jesus was there in the Body and Blood - until 8am when they took it all away and the Empty Time began.

And so, we begin again.

No more blogging until Easter Day now: it is time to enter in, rather than write about it.

More music

Wednesday, listening to the rain, working quietly in my office, with Rachmaninoff's piano concertos. Very peaceful. And then tonight, Bach's unaccompanied cello concertos with a gorgeous recording. 

And got lots done too. 

First fire

First fire of the winter season was lit tonight when we got home. Daughter was "star of the week" in her trampolining training session, so we took her out for dinner. I had forgotten how cozy it feels in the living room when the fire is lit. Everything seems to centre around the fireplace - particularly the cat, who was absolutely ecstatic that his "hot box" was finally hot again!

Tuesday of Holy Week. Jesus in the Temple. Listening to the teaching, and the silence between words, and the silence. 

Palm Sunday

Palm Sunday. Ride on, Ride on in Majesty and Lift high the cross. Processions with palms. Thinking about 1stC politics. Jesus the rabble rouser. Jesus the hobo? Jesus the political animal. Jesus the challenge to authority. The beginning of Holy Week. Today's collect says it all really:

Jesus, when you rode into Jerusalem
the people waved palms with shouts of acclamation.
Grant that when the shouting dies
we may still walk beside you even to a cross.

A New Zealand Prayer Book/He Karakia Mihinare o Aotearoa