Okay, so I have been living in sin for thirty-seven years. Reading the form letter, it appeared to me that whoever has been researching our case was researching the years 1945 - 1949. This would mean that the bride and groom in question were married either before conception or some where from birth to two years of age. The Ministry involved has been sent a sharp letter from Rob. When he recorded that I own not a single piece of official paper in my birth name, except for my birth certificate, I felt a little sad.
That led me to consider how, if we had been married just a few short years later, I would have kept my birth name. In 1967 it wasn't done. I ponder whether it would be worth my going back to my liltingly musical, so called 'maiden' name. Or would this add further to my identity issues? But then, if we are not registered as being married, are all my documents in a false name? Am I still Connie Ballantine and do I really have the option of remaining so?
The really scarey thing is that the United States government seems to have more information about us than our own government!!!!! In crossing the border 18 months ago, my husband was questioned about his place of birth, his High School and Universities, professions and so on. The AMERICAN BORDER GUARDS appeared to have this information in their computers, at their finger tips. WHY DOES THE CANADIAN GOVERNMENT HAVE SUCH A DIFFICULTY WITH I.T.?
Anyway, I am attempting to gain confidence by improving my computer and blogger skills. I'm blogging family pictures for those who know me well. I have to do this over and over in order to get the skill down. And Deb Sawyer has given me info to help me with my Links section. So I'll be fiddling around with these tasks. This should distract me from the fact that my identity seems foggy.
Friday, April 29, 2005
Thursday, April 28, 2005
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Living In Sin For Thirty-Seven Years!!!
Okay, so we were babies. That means that there are still many people living who were present at the ceremony on October 14, 1967. If you are one of these, or anyone else having any knowledge whatsoever of this event, will you please register your assent as a comment. A mere, "Yes" will suffice. Some of you will remember the festivities quite well.
The bride was slim in an off-white slubbed linen gown of medieval simplicity. When she spoke, it was with the voice of a maid. The groom was handsomely boyish, exuberant and tall in formal morning dress. He carried himself with the charm and grace of Robin Hood, which may also account for the fact that he nearly arrived at the church sans shoes. The officiant, a serio-comic figure of Friar Tuck proportions and baldness, was suffering from a bilious attack. In severe pain, sweating profusely, but otherwise masking his discomfort for the sake of his young friends, he presided over the service with dignity. There was a distinct odour of sanctity about the vows. There were times in ensuing years, that the couple wished the Friar had omitted his prayer asking God not to spare them suffering so that they might be compassionate. But the marriage 'took.'
Several lifetimes passed. The groom, applying for a pension, is told to produce a marriage certificate in order to assign beneficiary rights to the bride of his youth. Fourteen moves, two children, two dogs, two cats, two hamsters, a thousand clean-outs, a flood, a fire and the marriage certificate is no where to be found. A quest is initiated.
The church in Windsor, Ontario has been amalgamated. No records exist for 1967. Church archives in Toronto have no records of any marriage solemnized in that church from the years 1960 - 1972. And the pension will be witheld unless Robin Hood can establish the legality of his marriage. He is told to say he has been LIVING COMMON LAW FOR THIRTY-SIX YEARS and furthermore to PERJURE himself in front of a Justice of the Peace in this respect! Anyone knowing Rob will know how impossible this will be for him. He himself has conducted dozens of weddings over the years. What would this do to his credibility? Furthermore, he is told that he cannot SWEAR to the validity of his marriage in front of a Justice, even though this is the TRUTH.
Many phone calls and letters later, it is allowed that a senior offical of the Church may confirm by letter that the marriage took place. This is graciously done. The pension is granted and the aging honeymooners decide to apply to the government for a copy of their original certificate.
More than a year passes in which the officials in Thunder Bay do not cash the cheque for the copy. Nor do Robin and Marian hear anything at all from the Registry. From time to time, they think of their request, lost somewhere in bureaucracy. A feeling of unease arises. This intensifies when Marian is told that her SIN card cannot be replaced unless she produces a marriage certificate. The government has accepted her income tax for thirty-seven years in her married name. Her post secondary degrees were granted in this name. Her children were registered under this family name. If she is not legitimately married, she wants her taxes back!
Today a letter arrived from the Office of the Registrar General indicating that no record of this marriage exists. What could this mean? They are each free to marry another??? Legally yes. Morally no.
If the wedding described above seems real enough to you and not a mere dream, please indicate this in the comments. Your affirmation might just release Robin Hood and Maid Marian from their present nightmare. Maid Marian, in particular, is suffering a severe identity crisis.
The bride was slim in an off-white slubbed linen gown of medieval simplicity. When she spoke, it was with the voice of a maid. The groom was handsomely boyish, exuberant and tall in formal morning dress. He carried himself with the charm and grace of Robin Hood, which may also account for the fact that he nearly arrived at the church sans shoes. The officiant, a serio-comic figure of Friar Tuck proportions and baldness, was suffering from a bilious attack. In severe pain, sweating profusely, but otherwise masking his discomfort for the sake of his young friends, he presided over the service with dignity. There was a distinct odour of sanctity about the vows. There were times in ensuing years, that the couple wished the Friar had omitted his prayer asking God not to spare them suffering so that they might be compassionate. But the marriage 'took.'
Several lifetimes passed. The groom, applying for a pension, is told to produce a marriage certificate in order to assign beneficiary rights to the bride of his youth. Fourteen moves, two children, two dogs, two cats, two hamsters, a thousand clean-outs, a flood, a fire and the marriage certificate is no where to be found. A quest is initiated.
The church in Windsor, Ontario has been amalgamated. No records exist for 1967. Church archives in Toronto have no records of any marriage solemnized in that church from the years 1960 - 1972. And the pension will be witheld unless Robin Hood can establish the legality of his marriage. He is told to say he has been LIVING COMMON LAW FOR THIRTY-SIX YEARS and furthermore to PERJURE himself in front of a Justice of the Peace in this respect! Anyone knowing Rob will know how impossible this will be for him. He himself has conducted dozens of weddings over the years. What would this do to his credibility? Furthermore, he is told that he cannot SWEAR to the validity of his marriage in front of a Justice, even though this is the TRUTH.
Many phone calls and letters later, it is allowed that a senior offical of the Church may confirm by letter that the marriage took place. This is graciously done. The pension is granted and the aging honeymooners decide to apply to the government for a copy of their original certificate.
More than a year passes in which the officials in Thunder Bay do not cash the cheque for the copy. Nor do Robin and Marian hear anything at all from the Registry. From time to time, they think of their request, lost somewhere in bureaucracy. A feeling of unease arises. This intensifies when Marian is told that her SIN card cannot be replaced unless she produces a marriage certificate. The government has accepted her income tax for thirty-seven years in her married name. Her post secondary degrees were granted in this name. Her children were registered under this family name. If she is not legitimately married, she wants her taxes back!
Today a letter arrived from the Office of the Registrar General indicating that no record of this marriage exists. What could this mean? They are each free to marry another??? Legally yes. Morally no.
If the wedding described above seems real enough to you and not a mere dream, please indicate this in the comments. Your affirmation might just release Robin Hood and Maid Marian from their present nightmare. Maid Marian, in particular, is suffering a severe identity crisis.
Thursday, April 14, 2005
Holding in Prayer
Spencer stretches,
accepting love,
long limbed,
arms round my neck,
feet past my knee.
Gives butterfly kisses.
Rachael sits by my side,
practicing grown-up independence,
then clings coyly
and hides her head
at the hint of strangers.
Robbie smiles at his Papa’s voice.
He’d let us hold his babyself all day.
Sometimes we do.
Other children. Other times.
My own children when they were young,
growing in my heart.
The special ones I lift from a distance,
offering a surrogate mother’s prayers.
Jude who died.
Kaitlyn with leukemia.
Healthy Matthew,
tucked under a paternal arm.
And Audrey,
named for a Nana gone to heaven.
My own mother holds the infants
becoming once more herself,
nurturing generations.
Time doesn’t matter, nor language, nor infirmity.
Later, she falls asleep
like a child herself,
in my arms
on her narrow bed.
She stirs and wakens slowly
as if we had forever.
One day, we will.
Shall we hold each other in Godspace,
kindred and friend,
in God’s place?
Shall we gentle all little children with our prayers?
accepting love,
long limbed,
arms round my neck,
feet past my knee.
Gives butterfly kisses.
Rachael sits by my side,
practicing grown-up independence,
then clings coyly
and hides her head
at the hint of strangers.
Robbie smiles at his Papa’s voice.
He’d let us hold his babyself all day.
Sometimes we do.
Other children. Other times.
My own children when they were young,
growing in my heart.
The special ones I lift from a distance,
offering a surrogate mother’s prayers.
Jude who died.
Kaitlyn with leukemia.
Healthy Matthew,
tucked under a paternal arm.
And Audrey,
named for a Nana gone to heaven.
My own mother holds the infants
becoming once more herself,
nurturing generations.
Time doesn’t matter, nor language, nor infirmity.
Later, she falls asleep
like a child herself,
in my arms
on her narrow bed.
She stirs and wakens slowly
as if we had forever.
One day, we will.
Shall we hold each other in Godspace,
kindred and friend,
in God’s place?
Shall we gentle all little children with our prayers?
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
Eaten Posts
My computer has eaten two different posts today.
I'm miffed.
Just checked and it hasn't eaten this one. So insignificant. Neither profound nor beautiful or even silly. Think I'll publish.
I'm miffed.
Just checked and it hasn't eaten this one. So insignificant. Neither profound nor beautiful or even silly. Think I'll publish.
Thursday, March 31, 2005
The Dining Room Suite
I remember when my parents bought it. A mahogany Duncan Fife style, reproduction, dining room suite by Bassett. They went shopping at Tepperman's. An adult's only expedition. But the excitement surrounding the suites' arrival was visceral.
There had never been a dining room suite because there had never been a dining room before. The 1950's house my father built had a kitchen with a bay window and built-in, restaurant style banquette, upholstered professionally by my mother. The table with dropped leaves for expansion and crafted by my father, was clear birch on a wrought iron pedastal. So my mother, blessed with the gift of hospitality, had for years, entertained at our kitchen table. A dining room for entertaining and a proper dining suite was a luxury which she anticipated when we moved.
For over forty years, the dining room suite has been central to our family celebrations. Christmases, all high holidays, birthdays, anniversaries and showers have been commemorated around this festive board. The suite had a sideboard for serving and a bow fronted china cabinet, both with lots of storage. The chairs, my mother claimed, were never the chairs which they had been shown when they purchased the set. In typical fashion, my parents didn't want to make a fuss and never followed this up. Recovered several times by both my father and me, the chairs did show the least elegance and the most wear and tear of all the pieces in this set.
So now, it falls to me to make the decision to sell the suite in order to make room for more guests at Dawsonwood Cottage. It is not a decision which everyone in the family greets with joy. The dining room suite has meaning somehow beyond itself, representing family unity, good times, times of struggle. Conversations. Great gastronomic creations.
The table moved into the living room to make room for a hospital bed when my father was dying. My mother's fine china watched over him as he slept. At the dining table, my mother and I wrote our thank yous for condolence gifts and kindnesses. Later that same year, I would assemble wedding invitations for my younger daughter at the very same table. Over the last seven years, I have been the one to decorate the table at Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter. Now I am the one taking it apart.
My mother is failing. Her meticulous entertaining finished. Her memory faint. She lives in a retirement home and visits to her former home are tiring for her. It is time for another of the many transitions which Judith Viorst calls Necessary Losses.
We all have remembrance, and I more than any. Perhaps that is why it is easier for me to let the dining room suite go. I remember when the delivery men carried it, reverentially, into our home. I saw it go out today, faded but still grand. Time for practiced detachment. Time for releasing. There's a few good Christmases left in that suite for another family. Let it be.
There had never been a dining room suite because there had never been a dining room before. The 1950's house my father built had a kitchen with a bay window and built-in, restaurant style banquette, upholstered professionally by my mother. The table with dropped leaves for expansion and crafted by my father, was clear birch on a wrought iron pedastal. So my mother, blessed with the gift of hospitality, had for years, entertained at our kitchen table. A dining room for entertaining and a proper dining suite was a luxury which she anticipated when we moved.
For over forty years, the dining room suite has been central to our family celebrations. Christmases, all high holidays, birthdays, anniversaries and showers have been commemorated around this festive board. The suite had a sideboard for serving and a bow fronted china cabinet, both with lots of storage. The chairs, my mother claimed, were never the chairs which they had been shown when they purchased the set. In typical fashion, my parents didn't want to make a fuss and never followed this up. Recovered several times by both my father and me, the chairs did show the least elegance and the most wear and tear of all the pieces in this set.
So now, it falls to me to make the decision to sell the suite in order to make room for more guests at Dawsonwood Cottage. It is not a decision which everyone in the family greets with joy. The dining room suite has meaning somehow beyond itself, representing family unity, good times, times of struggle. Conversations. Great gastronomic creations.
The table moved into the living room to make room for a hospital bed when my father was dying. My mother's fine china watched over him as he slept. At the dining table, my mother and I wrote our thank yous for condolence gifts and kindnesses. Later that same year, I would assemble wedding invitations for my younger daughter at the very same table. Over the last seven years, I have been the one to decorate the table at Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter. Now I am the one taking it apart.
My mother is failing. Her meticulous entertaining finished. Her memory faint. She lives in a retirement home and visits to her former home are tiring for her. It is time for another of the many transitions which Judith Viorst calls Necessary Losses.
We all have remembrance, and I more than any. Perhaps that is why it is easier for me to let the dining room suite go. I remember when the delivery men carried it, reverentially, into our home. I saw it go out today, faded but still grand. Time for practiced detachment. Time for releasing. There's a few good Christmases left in that suite for another family. Let it be.
Sunday, March 27, 2005
Dying to Live Again
Have I missed something, or has the blogging community been largely silent about the Terri Schiavo dilemma? I probably don't read the right blogs. There has been an ocean of words in the press. Easter morning provides an opportunity to do the one thing we can do...pray with open hearts for everyone concerned.
If she dies
is Resurrection
defeated by the other side?
Weep we
in a darkened moment.
Then the Light.
C.K.
If she dies
is Resurrection
defeated by the other side?
Weep we
in a darkened moment.
Then the Light.
C.K.
Saturday, March 26, 2005
Daughter of My Daughters
Last night I sat up late with my daughters. The laughter was good. Storytelling was in the air. One of my sons-in-law heard there was coffee and stayed for the chat. We were too tired to stay up and too tired make the effort it takes to go to bed. I embarrassed them with my childishness. They surprised me with their wisdom, compassion, generosity and wit. What a delight then to open henrinouwen.org this morning to read a description of our relationship:
But a mother can also become the daughter of her daughter and a father the son of his son. A mother can become the daughter of her son and a father the son of his daughter. Father and mother become brother and sister of their own children, and they all can become friends. It doesn't happen often, but when it does happen it is as beautiful to watch as the dawn of a new day.
But a mother can also become the daughter of her daughter and a father the son of his son. A mother can become the daughter of her son and a father the son of his daughter. Father and mother become brother and sister of their own children, and they all can become friends. It doesn't happen often, but when it does happen it is as beautiful to watch as the dawn of a new day.
Thursday, March 24, 2005
He Shall Feed His Flock
For the last two weeks, in preparation for Easter, we've been listening to Handel's Messiah. It is a particularly wonderful recording by the Gabrieli Consort and Players, which attempts to render a robust, playful, passionate Messiah which is true to Handel's vision. I could listen all day to this exciting music. It calms me, energizes me, puts me in touch with God. The selection of texts is of course, appropriate to this season of the year, and one wonders how it ever came to be associated with Christmas at all.
Anyway, we (I mean Rob and I) have also been reading Parker Palmer on scarcity and abundance. Somehow when Palmer's words come into contact with Handel's music, the whole notion that "He shall feed his flock" comes alive. I am nurtured. Fed. My anxiety about a myriad family stresses disappears. I feel carried in Christ's arms.
When I was a child my uncle, a fine artist, painted a mural on the Sunday School walls. Jesus with the flock. I can see it still. Perhaps some would consider the image sentimental and dated now. As a child I was captivated by the larger than life size figures. It goes with Messiah, scarcity and abundance and Easter.
When my oldest daughter was about seven months old, we were ministering in a rural parish a long way from the place we call home. We spent a lot of time on the road going from town to town, visiting our outlying flock, holding small meetings, doing 'the work'. On one of these trips we pulled over to the side of the road to watch a flock of sheep with their lambs. It was snowing. A gloomy day, overcast and bitterly cold. We couldn't get out of the car, but our daughter waved and cooed at the lambies. The hillside was scarcely green, but the lambs frisked about. It was as if they were aware of the abundance which was their inheritance. They didn't look at all nervous that there wouldn't be enough grass when the time came. So Handel, and Parker Palmer, Jesus caring for the flock on the Sunday School walls, and newborn lambs on a stark hillside near Parrsboro Nova Scotia.
This year we have a new grandson, named Robbie after his Papa, whom he already loves. When Robbie was born he was very small and had to spend the first week of his life in hospital. The medical reasons for this are not important. What is important is that he is thriving today. At two months old, he is meeting his benchmarks and is close to double his birth weight. Abundance. Answers to Prayer. Jesus carrying the lambs. Handel. Parker Palmer. Sheep and lambs on a hillside in the snow.
Whatever the initial appearances, I do believe that there is enough and plenty. I have experienced this to be true this year. And this is my Easter blessing for you all.
Anyway, we (I mean Rob and I) have also been reading Parker Palmer on scarcity and abundance. Somehow when Palmer's words come into contact with Handel's music, the whole notion that "He shall feed his flock" comes alive. I am nurtured. Fed. My anxiety about a myriad family stresses disappears. I feel carried in Christ's arms.
When I was a child my uncle, a fine artist, painted a mural on the Sunday School walls. Jesus with the flock. I can see it still. Perhaps some would consider the image sentimental and dated now. As a child I was captivated by the larger than life size figures. It goes with Messiah, scarcity and abundance and Easter.
When my oldest daughter was about seven months old, we were ministering in a rural parish a long way from the place we call home. We spent a lot of time on the road going from town to town, visiting our outlying flock, holding small meetings, doing 'the work'. On one of these trips we pulled over to the side of the road to watch a flock of sheep with their lambs. It was snowing. A gloomy day, overcast and bitterly cold. We couldn't get out of the car, but our daughter waved and cooed at the lambies. The hillside was scarcely green, but the lambs frisked about. It was as if they were aware of the abundance which was their inheritance. They didn't look at all nervous that there wouldn't be enough grass when the time came. So Handel, and Parker Palmer, Jesus caring for the flock on the Sunday School walls, and newborn lambs on a stark hillside near Parrsboro Nova Scotia.
This year we have a new grandson, named Robbie after his Papa, whom he already loves. When Robbie was born he was very small and had to spend the first week of his life in hospital. The medical reasons for this are not important. What is important is that he is thriving today. At two months old, he is meeting his benchmarks and is close to double his birth weight. Abundance. Answers to Prayer. Jesus carrying the lambs. Handel. Parker Palmer. Sheep and lambs on a hillside in the snow.
Whatever the initial appearances, I do believe that there is enough and plenty. I have experienced this to be true this year. And this is my Easter blessing for you all.
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
Mornings are for Meditation
Wait and watch
as sunlight strengthens.
Winter fog like incense rises,
fades from white to palest blue,
disappears in morning skies.
Deep black pools form on the river,
lick the ice bridge from each side,
where yesterday
a feral cat
crossed safely to the other bank.
Hoarfrost
bright as teardrop winks.
Fear, loneliness,
and hurts past spent,
are warmed by Light
without, within.
Snowdrifts
heating at the core
weep silently,
give up their power,
shrink,
dry by degrees.
Underneath the eager moles
dig tunnels for quick escape.
And beaver free to swim at leisure,
dive under ice.
Primrose and crocus
plump and swell.
Sap soars.
Here is God,
and here and here.
In person, sky, and river and ground,
God releases Life Unbound.
as sunlight strengthens.
Winter fog like incense rises,
fades from white to palest blue,
disappears in morning skies.
Deep black pools form on the river,
lick the ice bridge from each side,
where yesterday
a feral cat
crossed safely to the other bank.
Hoarfrost
bright as teardrop winks.
Fear, loneliness,
and hurts past spent,
are warmed by Light
without, within.
Snowdrifts
heating at the core
weep silently,
give up their power,
shrink,
dry by degrees.
Underneath the eager moles
dig tunnels for quick escape.
And beaver free to swim at leisure,
dive under ice.
Primrose and crocus
plump and swell.
Sap soars.
Here is God,
and here and here.
In person, sky, and river and ground,
God releases Life Unbound.
Watching the Seasons Change
Thank God. A perceptible difference. A change. Dare I say, epiphany? More like spiritual Spring. All the little bits and pieces of my life are coming together. After a winter of nearly fifteen years, poetry is returning. I am painting again. I have stopped struggling after perfection. I have found that there is a growing place of ease in me.
What has made the difference? Willingness to trust God. A wise woman prayed with me (see Listening 3/12/2005). She asked if I had forgiven God...for the pain in my life, for disappointments, for a long life of depression, for inherited pain, for loss of career, for financial instability. I have so often felt angry with God, and known that was okay, but had never imagined "forgiving God." The irony being of course, that it is not God who needs my forgiveness, but I who need to forgive in order to be free from bitterness and the hold of the past. Inwardly then, I was resenting God. Trust in God and love of God were impossible. Commitment without loving trust, a long winter indeed.
So now I can claim what I think God has been creating in me all along. My world is not the macrocosm, but the microcosm. Not the public stage, but the private page. My vocation is to conceive and birth Beauty.
After nearly three years of trying to paint a large canvas landscape of a vast valley in Nunavit, I found myself painting a small card, and capturing the sense of this place in miniature. Similarly, I sketched the vast frozen space of lake Simcoe, the distant huts, the racing vehicles. With a few strokes, the essence was there, in a tiny picture no bigger than my hand. It takes a measure of trust to let these tokens go out into the world. Their insignificance is both their strength and a metaphor of Creator God's attention to detail, and grace at work in me.
So too, prayer is opening. I have let go of the striving to make my prayers conform to what I think I have been taught. I am trusting that God has placed a prayerful heart at the core of my being, and that God's Spirit prays within me. I give myself over to this praying...a jumble of faces and situations, intentions and longings. Why should my prayer life be any more linear than my left brained thought life?
There is holiness as I watch the river. I accept that deep winter is slowly turning to spring. I watch the seasons change and hold up the ever changing world to the One who never changes, who loves me when I cannot love back, who trusts me even when I cannot trust, who has placed his seal on me from the beginning of time, who knows my calling when I cannot hear it, and waits with me through a long winter for the discovery of spring.
Poem to follow in next post.
What has made the difference? Willingness to trust God. A wise woman prayed with me (see Listening 3/12/2005). She asked if I had forgiven God...for the pain in my life, for disappointments, for a long life of depression, for inherited pain, for loss of career, for financial instability. I have so often felt angry with God, and known that was okay, but had never imagined "forgiving God." The irony being of course, that it is not God who needs my forgiveness, but I who need to forgive in order to be free from bitterness and the hold of the past. Inwardly then, I was resenting God. Trust in God and love of God were impossible. Commitment without loving trust, a long winter indeed.
So now I can claim what I think God has been creating in me all along. My world is not the macrocosm, but the microcosm. Not the public stage, but the private page. My vocation is to conceive and birth Beauty.
After nearly three years of trying to paint a large canvas landscape of a vast valley in Nunavit, I found myself painting a small card, and capturing the sense of this place in miniature. Similarly, I sketched the vast frozen space of lake Simcoe, the distant huts, the racing vehicles. With a few strokes, the essence was there, in a tiny picture no bigger than my hand. It takes a measure of trust to let these tokens go out into the world. Their insignificance is both their strength and a metaphor of Creator God's attention to detail, and grace at work in me.
So too, prayer is opening. I have let go of the striving to make my prayers conform to what I think I have been taught. I am trusting that God has placed a prayerful heart at the core of my being, and that God's Spirit prays within me. I give myself over to this praying...a jumble of faces and situations, intentions and longings. Why should my prayer life be any more linear than my left brained thought life?
There is holiness as I watch the river. I accept that deep winter is slowly turning to spring. I watch the seasons change and hold up the ever changing world to the One who never changes, who loves me when I cannot love back, who trusts me even when I cannot trust, who has placed his seal on me from the beginning of time, who knows my calling when I cannot hear it, and waits with me through a long winter for the discovery of spring.
Poem to follow in next post.
Saturday, March 12, 2005
Listening
I have spent the last week listening. During two days of solitude I listened to my own thoughts quieten. I realized how I am often deafened by worry, and paralyzed by the concerns of life. In quietness, apart from family responsibility it was possible to bring my will to focus on God. It was possible, also, to listen with my eyes, to record in watercolours some memories of spaces, places and times where I have felt at peace.
Then solitude was followed by other kinds of listening. I listened to lectures and to students practising the art of counselling. Sometimes betrayed by my ears, I tried to listen with my heart. Thank God for eyes and heart..to see gesture, posture, movements and tears.
And while I was listening to others, someone else was listening to and observing me. At the very end of the week, a new acquaintance, sensitive to God's voice asked to pray with me. She helped me to give voice to issues that have been lying silent in the back of my mind, issues related to trust and love and will. I suspect I will be writing about this in the next few days.
Imagine my surprise then, upon returning, that the Henri Nouwen daily thoughts were dealing with this very topic.
Henri Nouwen has written:
Listening in the spiritual life is much more than a psychological strategy to help others discover themselves. In the spiritual life the listener is not the ego, which would like to speak but is trained to restrain itself, but the Spirit of God within us. When we are baptised in the Spirit - that is, when we have received the Spirit of Jesus as the breath of God breathing within us - that Spirit creates in us a sacred space where the other can be received and listened to. The Spirit of Jesus prays in us and listens in us to all who come to us with their sufferings and pains.
When we dare to fully trust in the power of God's Spirit listening in us, we will see true healing occur.
For those who don't already know this site, Henri Nouwen's wisdom can be found at: http://www.henrinouwen.org
Then solitude was followed by other kinds of listening. I listened to lectures and to students practising the art of counselling. Sometimes betrayed by my ears, I tried to listen with my heart. Thank God for eyes and heart..to see gesture, posture, movements and tears.
And while I was listening to others, someone else was listening to and observing me. At the very end of the week, a new acquaintance, sensitive to God's voice asked to pray with me. She helped me to give voice to issues that have been lying silent in the back of my mind, issues related to trust and love and will. I suspect I will be writing about this in the next few days.
Imagine my surprise then, upon returning, that the Henri Nouwen daily thoughts were dealing with this very topic.
Henri Nouwen has written:
Listening in the spiritual life is much more than a psychological strategy to help others discover themselves. In the spiritual life the listener is not the ego, which would like to speak but is trained to restrain itself, but the Spirit of God within us. When we are baptised in the Spirit - that is, when we have received the Spirit of Jesus as the breath of God breathing within us - that Spirit creates in us a sacred space where the other can be received and listened to. The Spirit of Jesus prays in us and listens in us to all who come to us with their sufferings and pains.
When we dare to fully trust in the power of God's Spirit listening in us, we will see true healing occur.
For those who don't already know this site, Henri Nouwen's wisdom can be found at: http://www.henrinouwen.org
Thursday, March 03, 2005
Retreat
To all my faithful blog readers and lurkers:
I am going on a retreat for a few days and then participating in a workshop, so I will not be here at my post (ha, ha). When I get back I hope to be filled with Inspiration. Bless you all on your journeys.
Connie
I am going on a retreat for a few days and then participating in a workshop, so I will not be here at my post (ha, ha). When I get back I hope to be filled with Inspiration. Bless you all on your journeys.
Connie
Saturday, February 26, 2005
Beethoven's Hair
For access to the interactive site which tells this phenomenal story, click on above title.
I have Beethoven in my blood. So may you. Nightly, I was lullabied by his symphonies or for variation, a piano concerto. Passionate music. Provocative music. Music to woo a lover or win a war.
Da Da Da DUH. Da Da Da Duh.
In my family love of the music of Beethoven reached a profound level. Over the years we lived a sort of parallel Ludwigian existence. My father, given a musically gifted son, assumed the role of Beethoven's father. He had a passing resemblance to the great genius himself. If my father had let his hair grow, he would have looked like Beethoven. Alas. He did not. And he stopped short of waking my brother at three in the morning to practise.
My brother, one supposes, was to be the tortured genius. Given the painful exigencies of the real Beethoven's life, one wonders why we all entered into this legend with such whole hearted vigour. I think there was some belief in our family that it was necessary to suffer for one's art. No pain. No gain. I will stop short of saying that both my parents went deaf as an empathetic response to Beethoven in later life. But they did go deaf. The rigorous tutelege of young Ludwig was our family's template for life. And after all, our last name did begin with the letter "B." And my brother's name did begin with "L."
The long dead composer achieved sainthood in our household. Well, there was Jesus. And then there was Beethoven. Beethoven, writing Moonlight Sonata. Beethoven cutting the legs off his piano so that he could feel the vibrations of his music on the floor. Beethoven, stone deaf, being turned to face tumultous applause for the debut of his ninth and last symphony. Beethoven's sufferings somehow flavoured his music and made him real.
Then there was the fact of his personal habits, his temperament and lifestyle. I believe that loving Beethoven made us more tolerant of human weakness than we otherwise would have been. Fundamentalist. Evangelical. Teetotalers. He wasn't any of those things and yet we honoured him. Beethoven's foibles stretched us, made us think. Made us, somehow citizens of the world.
I have Beethoven in my blood. So may you. Nightly, I was lullabied by his symphonies or for variation, a piano concerto. Passionate music. Provocative music. Music to woo a lover or win a war.
Da Da Da DUH. Da Da Da Duh.
In my family love of the music of Beethoven reached a profound level. Over the years we lived a sort of parallel Ludwigian existence. My father, given a musically gifted son, assumed the role of Beethoven's father. He had a passing resemblance to the great genius himself. If my father had let his hair grow, he would have looked like Beethoven. Alas. He did not. And he stopped short of waking my brother at three in the morning to practise.
My brother, one supposes, was to be the tortured genius. Given the painful exigencies of the real Beethoven's life, one wonders why we all entered into this legend with such whole hearted vigour. I think there was some belief in our family that it was necessary to suffer for one's art. No pain. No gain. I will stop short of saying that both my parents went deaf as an empathetic response to Beethoven in later life. But they did go deaf. The rigorous tutelege of young Ludwig was our family's template for life. And after all, our last name did begin with the letter "B." And my brother's name did begin with "L."
The long dead composer achieved sainthood in our household. Well, there was Jesus. And then there was Beethoven. Beethoven, writing Moonlight Sonata. Beethoven cutting the legs off his piano so that he could feel the vibrations of his music on the floor. Beethoven, stone deaf, being turned to face tumultous applause for the debut of his ninth and last symphony. Beethoven's sufferings somehow flavoured his music and made him real.
Then there was the fact of his personal habits, his temperament and lifestyle. I believe that loving Beethoven made us more tolerant of human weakness than we otherwise would have been. Fundamentalist. Evangelical. Teetotalers. He wasn't any of those things and yet we honoured him. Beethoven's foibles stretched us, made us think. Made us, somehow citizens of the world.
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
What day is it?
One day pushes itself into the next.
Always some tasks left over
to seed the agenda of the future.
Mail waiting for stamps.
Mail waiting for addresses.
Some things can't happen on the net.
Like thank-yous,
and personal care bills,
and posting videos.
And washing.
Those colour sorted piles,
extended in rows across the basement floor,
lie dormant for tomorrow.
People to be consoled.
Errands to run.
A well-meant promise to be kept.
They stand like scarecrows
in a field of days
stretching to infinity.
There must be a reason why
I chose this,
rather than that,
like Frederick Bueckner,
climbing his study stairs
and turning his back on
visible suffering
to do what may be a higher good.
Or I may be fooling myself.
Missed the day for blogger's protest.
Really a whole day went missing.
What was I doing?
Ah, babysitting.
And is this Wednesday already?
Is there a point to getting started this week,
or should I just wait until next?
Can I pick up a paint brush?
Can I write a story?
Can I further my vision?
Can I concentrate on God?
Can I admit I'm angry?
Always some tasks left over
to seed the agenda of the future.
Mail waiting for stamps.
Mail waiting for addresses.
Some things can't happen on the net.
Like thank-yous,
and personal care bills,
and posting videos.
And washing.
Those colour sorted piles,
extended in rows across the basement floor,
lie dormant for tomorrow.
People to be consoled.
Errands to run.
A well-meant promise to be kept.
They stand like scarecrows
in a field of days
stretching to infinity.
There must be a reason why
I chose this,
rather than that,
like Frederick Bueckner,
climbing his study stairs
and turning his back on
visible suffering
to do what may be a higher good.
Or I may be fooling myself.
Missed the day for blogger's protest.
Really a whole day went missing.
What was I doing?
Ah, babysitting.
And is this Wednesday already?
Is there a point to getting started this week,
or should I just wait until next?
Can I pick up a paint brush?
Can I write a story?
Can I further my vision?
Can I concentrate on God?
Can I admit I'm angry?
Saturday, February 19, 2005
Hagia Sophia
Return now to the subject of Sophia, the Spirit of Wisdom, because it is not far from the longing for liturgy which I have been clumsily attempting to address for the last two posts. I'm making this a short post because Thomas Merton has written a poem entitled Hagia Sophia which links his vision of Sophia both with the active work of God in creation and with the Holy Spirit and with Jesus. He does all of this within the framework of the traditional hours of prayer; lauds to compline. If you believe as I believe, that our worship is rooted not so much in knowing as in mystery, then Merton's poem is for you. If you believe, as I believe, that there is a feminine face to God, then this poem is for you.
Click on title above to take you to Thomas Merton's poem Hagia Sophia
Click on title above to take you to Thomas Merton's poem Hagia Sophia
Saturday, February 12, 2005
Longing for Liturgy: Part Two
I believe that my longing for liturgy began in childhood when I attended a cousin's confirmation. Such was my early fundamentalist indoctrination, that I felt a hum of terror as well as a frisson of curiosity while watching the proceedings. Were these windows "idols?" Were these carvings "graven images?" I let myself down into what was Holy Mystery. The service was scarey and wonderful. The colours, the candles, the organ and choir embraced me; spoke to the place inside me where God and Beauty dwelt. The air was filtered gold. The scriptures had a familiar cadence, but a deeper dignity than they achieved when we read them from well-worn "promises" around the supper table each evening.
It is not news that space affects and shapes worship behaviour, and visa versa. People move into a cathedral with a muted awe. There is little chat before service. The space invites contemplation. A large industrial space is conducive to contemporary worship with room for sound equipment, projection screens, dancing and moving about. The plain Quaker meeting house is perfectly suited to the prayers which will be spoken after silence. Given these differences, I wonder if denominations, rather than being a divisive, might be God's way of providing for varying taste and temperament.
In EVANGELICALS ON THE CANTERBURY TRAIL, Robert E. Webber urges us to be Christians first and whatever else we are, Baptist, Episcopal, Methodist (even "emerging" one supposes) second. This concept was compelling for me since the church where I worshipped had many "distinctives". There was a tendency for me to commit the sin of henotheism, placing the distinctives and governance of the church in the ultimate place in my life. God showed me that the amount of time I spent talking about the church, complaining about the church, strategizing for change in the church, were depleting my love of God. Indeed, my constant battle with the church was substituting for a truer experience of God in my life.
Webber asserts that the evangelical church arose, in part, as a response to scientific rationalism. Christianity needed to be rational. Sermons defend what properly may be accepted as Mystery. I remember an agonized flannelgraph retelling of "Jonah" which a zealous leader inflicted on our stunned congregation. In it he showed, with dimensions, that there was a fish large enough to swallow Jonah whole, what Jonah experienced literally in the belly of the whale, and how he, hairless and naked and scalded by stomach acids, was spat onto the beach. All irrelevent!
I find the liturgical church comforting in that it takes me into the creaturely space of not-knowing. God is great, compassionate, mysterious and bigger than me. I sense this in the vaulted space, in the art, in the grand music pulsing through wooden pews, through the timelessness of the service.
Never was this comfort more needed than when Rob and I found ourselves in England as tragedy stuck his family at home in Canada. His sister, thirty-two years old mother of three children under five, was killed in a car accident. Unable to return for her funeral, we sought out a place to be in prayer each day of our journey, stopping for evensong or attending morning prayers wherever we found ourselves.
The day before the funeral in Canada, we visited Westminster Abbey. In November, by custom, it is surrounded by a memorial to war dead. There were thousands of white crosses planted in battalions, complete with a separate section for padres who had given their lives in service. Hundreds of padres! Newly ordained pastors, we purchased a cross and placed it in memory of some unknown padre in some unknown place. We were strangely comforted by participating in this symbolic act. In its deepest sense, that is what liturgy offers, a symbolism which speaks to heart matters, bypassing the rational mind. This multitude of crosses and our own loss had a connection which would only be destroyed by analysis.
The Abbey, however, was not our ultimate destination on the funereal day. Crowded with tourists, it was more like a museum than a place of worship. No comfort there. Just to the left of the Abbey, stands St. Margaret's Chapel. There God's Spirit surrounded us and comforted us. The interior was womb-dark and one could kneel for a long time in quietness, undisturbed. I remember shaking uncontrollably. Neither could believe that this young mother, wife, sister, daughter...was dead. In agony and unknowing, we clung to eachother, comforted by the palpable eternity which surrounded us. This has remained a most sacred memory of our life journey. In our bereavement, we felt surrounded by clouds of witnesses, connected to past and future by the act of kneeling and reading and praying.
It is not news that space affects and shapes worship behaviour, and visa versa. People move into a cathedral with a muted awe. There is little chat before service. The space invites contemplation. A large industrial space is conducive to contemporary worship with room for sound equipment, projection screens, dancing and moving about. The plain Quaker meeting house is perfectly suited to the prayers which will be spoken after silence. Given these differences, I wonder if denominations, rather than being a divisive, might be God's way of providing for varying taste and temperament.
In EVANGELICALS ON THE CANTERBURY TRAIL, Robert E. Webber urges us to be Christians first and whatever else we are, Baptist, Episcopal, Methodist (even "emerging" one supposes) second. This concept was compelling for me since the church where I worshipped had many "distinctives". There was a tendency for me to commit the sin of henotheism, placing the distinctives and governance of the church in the ultimate place in my life. God showed me that the amount of time I spent talking about the church, complaining about the church, strategizing for change in the church, were depleting my love of God. Indeed, my constant battle with the church was substituting for a truer experience of God in my life.
Webber asserts that the evangelical church arose, in part, as a response to scientific rationalism. Christianity needed to be rational. Sermons defend what properly may be accepted as Mystery. I remember an agonized flannelgraph retelling of "Jonah" which a zealous leader inflicted on our stunned congregation. In it he showed, with dimensions, that there was a fish large enough to swallow Jonah whole, what Jonah experienced literally in the belly of the whale, and how he, hairless and naked and scalded by stomach acids, was spat onto the beach. All irrelevent!
I find the liturgical church comforting in that it takes me into the creaturely space of not-knowing. God is great, compassionate, mysterious and bigger than me. I sense this in the vaulted space, in the art, in the grand music pulsing through wooden pews, through the timelessness of the service.
Never was this comfort more needed than when Rob and I found ourselves in England as tragedy stuck his family at home in Canada. His sister, thirty-two years old mother of three children under five, was killed in a car accident. Unable to return for her funeral, we sought out a place to be in prayer each day of our journey, stopping for evensong or attending morning prayers wherever we found ourselves.
The day before the funeral in Canada, we visited Westminster Abbey. In November, by custom, it is surrounded by a memorial to war dead. There were thousands of white crosses planted in battalions, complete with a separate section for padres who had given their lives in service. Hundreds of padres! Newly ordained pastors, we purchased a cross and placed it in memory of some unknown padre in some unknown place. We were strangely comforted by participating in this symbolic act. In its deepest sense, that is what liturgy offers, a symbolism which speaks to heart matters, bypassing the rational mind. This multitude of crosses and our own loss had a connection which would only be destroyed by analysis.
The Abbey, however, was not our ultimate destination on the funereal day. Crowded with tourists, it was more like a museum than a place of worship. No comfort there. Just to the left of the Abbey, stands St. Margaret's Chapel. There God's Spirit surrounded us and comforted us. The interior was womb-dark and one could kneel for a long time in quietness, undisturbed. I remember shaking uncontrollably. Neither could believe that this young mother, wife, sister, daughter...was dead. In agony and unknowing, we clung to eachother, comforted by the palpable eternity which surrounded us. This has remained a most sacred memory of our life journey. In our bereavement, we felt surrounded by clouds of witnesses, connected to past and future by the act of kneeling and reading and praying.
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