"catching the unseen..."

"and He will raise you up

on eagle's wings..." 

Watching a lone eagle this afternoon reminded me of how it feels to settle in to the place of prayer - listening for God's voice to lift me higher.  An eagle doesn't just sit on the edge of a branch or a cliff, with her wings tucked -- waiting for the thermal to lift her up.  There is a moment of reciprocity.  A moment when she lifts her wings and steps off into what cannot be seen, but is felt.  It is as real for her, as the granite beneath her talons.

Once there is this moment of connection -- the opening of her wings and stepping forward, uniting with the ever-present current of air (or thermal) she catches -- there is flight. There is a choreography that cannot exist without this unity.  The thermal cannot be seen without the form of the eagle to give it visibility, and the eagle is motionless without the invisible current that lifts her.

I love this relational aspect of prayer.  Yes, God is ever-present and always speaking, guiding, directing, protecting us -- and for this I am so forever grateful. But there is something so beautiful, and sweet, and powerful about the "dance" of opening my heart, and stepping into the "presence" -- of actively listening.  This is not a petitioning, but a celebration of Soul.  It is song, and dance, and poetry. It is the marriage of lyric with melody and movement. It is pure and refreshing.  It is both comforting and inviting. 

This kind of prayer isn't asking for anything. For why should we need to ask,  when our all-powerful, Father-Mother God already knows all -- and loves us, so much. This prayer wants nothing but to be one -- to dance -- with the Divine.  This is not the day-to-day "rushing about madly,"  while knowing that God is "in charge" kind of praying.  It is something quite different. 

This is the prayer of sitting quietly in the lap of the Father just to feel His arms around you.  It is feeling your heart beating along with His. It is to be so still that His breath stirs the downy hairs at the nape of your hopes. It is to be known - with such tenderness that you sigh more deeply into His care with each trusting release.

I never doubt that the thermals of Spirit will be there when I step off the ever-crumbling ledge of human control or worry -- the undulating edge that my life often looks and feels like.  Those moments when thunderheads blacken the horizon, and I think I can neither see a divine plan -- before or behind. When it looks as if lifitng my wings will put them right into the path of a lightning bolt.  I do it anyway, and there is a rush of peace when I feel that invisible current under my heart -- lifting it above doubt and despair.  It is not unlike the rush of love I feel when I look into my daughters' faces and remember that God trusted me with His precious child.

When it seems as if I'm falling out of grace.  I pause for just a moment, and shift in this space of listening.  And I can feel yet another current of God's love carrying me out of the descent. 

This is what prayer feels like to me.  I love riding these thermals of Love -- in joyful celebration of Her unseen ever-presence.  It is how I remind myself that what is unseen is often more powerful than what is not. It is to be raised up, "on eagle's wings.". 

offered with Love, 

Cate

"after this manner..."

"after this manner,
therefore, pray ye...” 

I've been thinking a lot about this preface to what has historically been referred to as "The Lord's Prayer." What does it mean? What is it really referring to?  What does it mean to pray after a particular manner?

It doesn't say, "after these words, therefore pray ye," but after this manner. I grew up thinking that it meant that we should pray with those particular words. And in fact, I do pray with those words, many times a day. But I can't imagine that Jesus -- who was all about the "how," rather than the "what" -- was really all that concerned about the specific words that one should be repeating in prayer. And if he were, shouldn't we be praying in Hebrew, Greek, or Aramaic? Whatever language he originally spoke those words in? 

In fact, when we look at what comes just before, he is not setting his audience up for memorization and repetition. He is defining the the spiritual posture for prayer. He says:

"When thou prayest, enter into thy closet
and when thou has shut thy door,
pray to thy Father which is in secret.
Use not vain repetitions.
Your Father knoweth what things
ye have need of, before ye ask him.”

So since it doesn't say, "after these words, pray ye," but "after this manner, pray ye," I have been wondering about how I can bring more obedience to my manner of prayer. The word manner, according to Webster's, means:

"the way in which a thing is done or happens;
a person's outward bearing or way of behaving”

It doesn't say anything about the particularly words, but the actual way we pray. Silently, in secret, with freshness, and above all, trusting that God knows what we need before we ask Him.

Starting each prayer with this clarity of posture - rather than accuracy of words - has brought fresh inspiration and a new level of listening to my prayer. Instead of jumping right in with familiar words, I find that I am actually starting with a silencing of the human mind's desire for vain repetition. The ego's insatiable desire to feel "in the know." For the human mind's, "I don't have to really listen for something new and fresh, because I've already got this figured this out." That approach to prayer can lead to a mantra-like sense of self-hypnosis.

I've also been considering how the actual words traditionally considered as "The Lord's Prayer," provide us with a metric for that listening.  These words themselves can help define the manner after which we pray.  First of all, it must be inclusive - it doesn't say, "my Father, but our Father."

Secondly, it must be conversant. We are not praying "about" a far off God, but are in conversation with the One who loves us, "Hallowed by Thy name," -- not "hallowed be His name." This prayer is in second person, not third. The Lord's Prayer encourages a sense of relationship with our Father.  We are speaking with Him, not about Him.

These are just a few things that have refreshed my love for the Lord's Prayer -- and the beautiful guidance we are given, whereby Jesus arrests "vain repetition," in order to give fresh breath to an inspired sense of listening -- for what "the Father knoweth," of our need.

I love that on the very first page of Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures, Mary Baker Eddy shakes up a traditional world view of prayer as something that we do, think, or say -- and takes it all back for God, when she writes:

"Prayer [is]
God's gracious means
for accomplishing whatever
has been successfully done
for the Christianization
and health of mankind.”

Prayer is not something we do. It is what God is doing in us. We simply show up in secret, refuse vain [futile, self-centered] repetitions, and let God reward us openly with His Love.

offered with Love,

Cate

"dropping my map with a thousand folds..."

"Drop my map
with a thousand folds,
In the distance
I see it glow;

There's a light,
there's a light
in the window..."

Carrie Newcomer's  "A Light in the Window" has been my traveling song this year.

But I am getting ahead of myself. A few years ago our daughters transferred from the private school they'd attended since preschool, to The Link School, an expeditionary high school nestled in high in the Rocky Mountains. I followed them to this small town in our beautiful Arkansas River valley within weeks, and Jeff six months later.

The Link School embraces student families, and I was so happy to be able to sit in on a number of the girls' classes. That Fall, school founder and Director, Bobby Lewis, was teaching a Sunday evening class titled "Explorations in Spiritual Literature." I was fascinated. Especially when I discovered that the The Tao of Pooh was on their reading list.

The Sunday that I joined Bobby, and the fifteen students who had gathered in the yurt, seemed like any other. Little did I know that I would be given a great and precious gift that night

At one point Bobby posed the question to the students: "How would you define the difference between spirituality and religion?" What a great question I thought. I couldn't wait to hear their answers. They were thoughtful and born out of their experiences. Then one of the students asked Bobby, "how would you define the difference between spirituality and religion?"

Bobby took his time. He was quiet for a good minute before saying that, for him:

"Spirituality is the inner landscape
that we all have to navigate.
Religions, philosophies,
are just different kinds of maps
for navigating that landscape.

Some people like a road map,
others prefer a topographical map,
some use a GPS that tells them
exactly where to turn -- and when.

And some people don't want to use
a map at all -- they just like to
bushwhack. And while some use multiple
types of maps -- depending on the
journey -- they all have to find
their way through that inner territory."

To say that I was gob-smacked with gratitude and wonder -- is a serious understatement. I was motionless. I didn't want to move for fear that it wouldn't sink in deeply enough.  I wanted to be able to remember it, so I could carry it with me for the rest of time.

If I had been taking notes to revisit later, they would have been worn-out and in shreds within the first week. It wasn't just that this was simply a great way to think about the question. For me, it was life-affirming.  It resonated with everything that I believed. It gave shape to the substance of my respect for the mapping choices of fellow spiritual travelers.  I felt like I had taken this metaphor into my heart, let it dissolve on my tongue, digested it fully, and it had assimilated in every mental molecule of my being.

You see, I had always thought of myself as a map person. I couldn't ever seem to follow the turn-by-turn instruction that Victoria, my Australian accented GPS tour guide, was giving me. I didn't trust her. I liked looking at a road map and seeing the whole trip laid out before me. I felt safe being able to imagine the next turn in the road.

But I also knew that there were times that Victoria might come in handy.  And  I wanted to understand why this was the navigational tool my daughters preferred. So, the next time I had to go to "the big city," I put aside my Rand-McNally road atlas, and committed to trusting Victoria to get me where I needed to go. And you know, she did. It wasn't what was familiar for me, but I realized that it worked. Yes, I still like my road map, but I can now see that Victoria is a legitimate option for navigating a difficult path.

The next trip I needed to make, I decided that I would use no map, no Victoria -- just other humans. I'd use the trip to connect with fellow travelers. I refused to calculate my estimated time of arrival. I headed southwest -- knowing that where I needed to end up was in that general direction -- and when I felt like I might have made a wrong turn, I pulled into a coffeehouse or service station and asked for directions. Another approach -- not necessarily my preference -- but it worked. I got there, and along the way, I saw beautiful scenery I hadn't expected and met people I won't forget.

I am a planner. Or at least that has been my modus operandi for most of my life. I have felt "safe" being able to anticipate bumps in the road, possible detours and missing way marks.  I like calculating estimated times of arrival based on speed of travel and distance to cover. It's been "the only way" for me. And I've been pretty darned proud of my ability to get out ahead of the traffic.

But I realized recently that I have put very little trust in what I cannot see, with that approach to travel -- or to navigating my inner landscape. So, I have been "dropping my map with a thousand folds," and have begun to navigate this journey based on looking for the Light in the window.

I am waiting for God, divine Love, to show me where He is preparing a place -- with a little table, a bed, a chair, and a lamp. And sometimes, I find that this prepared place is actually right here within me. That the light from the window, is the love-light shining in my own heart -- leading me home to the kingdom within.

But other days, I will be reading the Bible and there will be a story or a message that will serve as a topographical map for my day's journey. Or I might just head out the door without a weather map -- knowing that I will be fine - rain or shine.

This winter Jeff and I have had the opportunity to navigate new landscapes -- spiritually, emotionally, professionally, and logistically. We have maps with a thousand folds, that have served us for years -- and we use them.  But, we have also learned to listen for step-by-step instructions, we have paused on the road and watched the Sun's movement in order to get our bearings. We have bushwhacked and followed half-broke trails. We have walked hand-in-hand, and we have split up, in order to explore new trails -- calling out to one another, "I found a cairn, here is a marker, I see a light in the window."

We have folded and unfolded those sacred maps, used our well-loved spiritual compass, read the travel journals of wiser pilgrims, and we have stood still -- so many times -- just listening for the sound of a nearby river, waiting for the Wind to bring us the scent of home. Love asks us to be still, and Love beckons us onward.

One statement has been as sweet as breadcrumbs found on the path of this journey. It helps me remember that there is a reason for taking every step. Knowing my over-arching purpose has been a light in the window. Mary Baker Eddy writes:

"As you journey, and betimes sigh
for rest “beside the still waters,”
ponder this lesson of love. Learn
its purpose; and in hope and faith,
where heart meets heart reciprocally
blest, drink with me the living waters
of the spirit of my life-purpose, — 
to impress humanity with the genuine
recognition of practical, operative
Christian Science."

This has been my "home." Navigating my way has been so blessed by maps and compasses, cairns and traveling companions, guideposts and an ever-present Light in the window.


offered with Love,

Kate

"I listen to the Wind..."

"I listen to the wind,
to the wind of my soul.
Where I'll end up,
well, I think only God really knows..."

It's been forty-six years since I first ran my thumbnail down the edge of the cellophane on the Cat Steven's "Teaser and the Firecat" album that I'd gotten for my 17th birthday.

Within days I'd memorized every word. Within weeks my dad was threatening to break that album into a million pieces -- if my sister and I played it one more time.

Today, I can still listen to that album, and remember which song comes next.  I know the exact moment when the next track will start, and am able to anticipate the momentary pause in his voice -- during a poignant verse. "The Wind," is still my favorite song.  It's lyrics still leave me feeling both hungry and satisfied all at once.

I have asked myself so many times, "Why did he not want water -- even once? Why was not wanting water important? What was the devil's lake?"  There are some songs that it will take me a lifetime to understand. This is one of those songs. And yet, for all of its mystery -- and perhaps because of it -- I love this song.  Always have, always will.

Some songs reveal themselves in bits and pieces. About 25 years ago I had an experience that helped me gain some insight into this song, especially the line:

"I listen to my words,
but they fall far below..."  

Our daughter was about 4 years old. It was a snowy morning and I was in a hurry to get her to preschool before heading back to my office for a full day of calls and appointments. I buckled her into the passenger seat of our old car and came around to the driver's side.

When I say "old car," I mean really old car. We were a very young family with a very modest income. The car I was driving - although clean and reliable - was rusty, worn, and road weary. I'd patched the floor with cardboard, and the clutch pedal had lost its rubber pad.  

That morning, as I hurriedly pressed down on the clutch to start the car, the snow-covered sole of my shoe slipped off the pedal.  Its metal edge popped up suddenly and caught my ankle bone.  I heard -- and felt -- a sharp crack.  The pain was excruciating.

Our daughter loved to pray. She knew that this was what her mommy did for other people. She loved to sit at her little desk and pray for her dolls and her stuffed animals. But sometimes, she would also pray for her friends and our dog. 

In that moment - sitting in the silent car - I knew that I couldn't walk back into the house and call someone to help me. So I turned to our daughter, and asked her to pray for mommy.

Immediately she closed her eyes. Within seconds I realized that all of the pain was gone and I could freely move my ankle. I have to admit I was surprised at how instantaneously the situation changed.

I turned to our daughter and exclaimed that I'd been healed. Her expression said, "of course."  I thanked her, and asked, "When you were praying for mommy, what were you thinking?"

I will never forget her response -- or the look of exasperation on her face. It was as if she was repeating something to a child she'd been instructing, on the same subject, for years.  And I still hadn't gotten it. She said:

"Mommy,
when I pray
I don't think,
I listen."  

It literally took my breath away, and then it changed my sense of what it means to pray -- forever.

It also explained -- for me -- something Mary Baker Eddy writes on the first page of her primary work, Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures, in the opening chapter, titled "Prayer":

"Prayer, watching and working,
are God's gracious means..."  

Prayer is not my means for reaching out to God. It is God's means for communicating Truth to human consciousness. Prayer is not my means for mentally rehearsing scripture, inspiration, or quotes. Prayer is God's means for reaching deep into my heart with His/Her Truth -- revealing whatever I need to know in, and about, any given situation.

My job was not to think, but to listen. To listen from a very deep place of humble surrender.  To listen with the childlike trust of a toddler attentive to her parent.

Earlier, in the Preface of Science and Health, Eddy states that:

"The human mind is not a factor
in the Principle of Christian Science..."
 

Silencing the human mind is a constant discipline. For over twenty-five years now, I have been humbly reminding myself that "to pray," is not to think, but to listen.  

The human mind so desperately wants to be a contributing factor, a collaborator, a partner with the divine.  It wants to believe that it can create a prayer.  That it can create an environment ripe for a miracle. Create a thought that will flip the switch on a situation.  Silly ego mind -- you are not a creator.  You are not a factor in the Principle of Christian Science -- the law of God. 

So, over and over again, throughout each day and long into the night, I arrest the human mind's desire to be heard.  I silence its running dialogue with itself.  And I quietly listen for the voice - the Word - of God to speak to human consciousness.  And where I end up -- where this listening will take my heart -- only God really knows.


offered with Love,

Kate

"Pentecost: one people, one Voice..."

"This is the sound of one voice.
One people, one voice.
A song for every one of us.
This is the sound of one voice..."

I can't get enough of the Wailin' Jennys "One Voice" this week.  It speaks to me of something I am seeing for the first time about "the day of Pentecost" in the book of Acts.

The story goes:

"And when the day of Pentecost was fully come, they were all with one accord in one place.

"And suddenly there cam a sound from heaven as of a rushing mighty wind, and it filled all the house where they were sitting.

"And they were all filled with the Holy Ghost, and began to speak with other tongues, as the Sprit gave them utterance.

"Now when this was noised abroad, the mulitude came together, and were confounded, because that every man heard them speak in his own language."

I've always believed this story, but couldn't imagine experiencing it.  But today, I not only expect to experience it, I know that I have...and often.  And I believe that you have too.

Let me explain.

About 20 years ago, I heard socio-anthropologist Jean Houston (I've written about her story before) share an experience she had as a little girl.  According to my recollection, it goes like this:

Jean's father was a comedy skit writer for ventriloquist, Edgar Bergen, and his wooden-headed dummy, Charlie McCarthy.  Going with her father to the Bergen's apartment to play with Charlie (while Edgar and her dad worked on skits) was a big treat for her. 

One Saturday her dad asked her if she would like to go play with Charlie. 

Of course!

So off they go in a taxi to the Bergen's apartment near Central Park.  They take the elevator, unannounced, up to the penthouse doors that are just a hair's breadth ajar.  They can hear Edgar and Charlie in dialogue.  Mr. Houston assumes that Edgar is rehearsing an act, and wants to see how it's going. 

He motions for Jean to stay hushed, pushes the door open a bit more so that they can watch.  There is Edgar in a chair with Charlie on his lap.  But as they listen, they realize that Edgar is not rehearsing a comedy routine, he is asking Charlie all the most important questions of his heart.  "Is there a God?"  "What is my purpose?" "Where is God when bad things happen? 

And Charlie is answering...and he is answering wisely and profoundly.

Houston realizes that they are listening in on a very private "conversation" and clears his voice, announcing his presence.  Edgar jumps and turns.  Houston, trying to diffuse the moment's surface tension with humor, asks, "okay, who's the new writer?"  Edgar meekly replies, "Charlie."  Houston, says, what do you mean, of course, you are the writer, Charlie is just a wooden-headed dummy. And Edgar explains, "You don't understand, when I ask Charlie all the most profound questions in my heart, I have no idea how he is going to answer."

This experience changed the course of Jean Houston's life.  From that moment on, her eyes were open to what she calls "human potentiality," and the depth of the unseen divinity...wisdom, compassion, grace, humor...buried within each heart, mind..."soul." 

And from the first moment I first heard her story...I got it. It changed everything. It changed the way I thought about conversations, prayers, lectures, congregational sharing...everything.  No matter who we call for help, go to hear speak, show up in conversation with, we are only...through the collective experience of being with another or others...giving ourselves the permission to stop what we are doing, and hear the divine voice that is constantly speaking within our own consciousness. 

We just can't imagine that if we stopped, and stood in the silence of our own Christlikeness, we would hear the wisdom of the ages...as it relates to our own unique needs.  And, we would hear it in a language that resonates with our own life experience, cultural context, earnest longings, and where we are in our spiritual journey.   We would hear it in "our own tongue."

Let me give one example before signing off so that I can go into my own "Pentecostal room" for a while.  Okay?

Not long after hearing Jean's story about her dad, Edgar, and Charlie, I answered the phone in my office one night.  The person was in great discomfort.  I agreed to give treatment, but she asked if I could just talk to her a bit.  I listened for inspiration, and the thoughts that came were lovely, and fresh.  So fresh in fact, that I made notes myself on a pad of paper that I always kept by my phone for just that reason. 

We hung up, and she agreed to call me back within the hour.  At that moment I was called away from the office for a few minutes, and when I returned, the phone was ringing.  I answered it, and it was the woman who had called just minutes before. 

She began by telling me that it was a very quick "healing" and that, "When you said, 'da, da, da, da, da...'"  Well, I am sitting there at my desk, looking down at the copious notes that I had taken, and I hadn't said anything that she thought she had heard me say.   But, she had heard, exactly what she needed.

And the more I looked at my notes, the more I realized that what I had "heard" and thought I'd said, was exactly what I needed to hear from God about something I'd been struggling with for some time, but hadn't given myself permission to stop what I was doing for others, and pray about for myself.

Her reaching out to me, and me showing up in the office and picking up her call, was just the permission that we'd each given ourselves to stop and listen for spiritual guidance and inspiration.  And the only Voice that answers that call, is the Holy Ghost, the Spirit...and it is always answering from within.

I believe that on the day of Pentecost, everyone in that room was earnestly longing for inspiration, guidance, comfort in the face of Jesus' crucifixion, resurrection, and ascension...and what it all meant to the future of this new community of "believers."  They heard in their own hearts, the language of their heart...and spoke out from that language those healing, transformative messages that were meaningful to each of them.

Each time I turn to God, with my entire being, for answers...whether it is in the privacy of my own home, taking a call from a friend, in community at a lecture or talk, or as a part of a collective readership nurtured by an inspired text...it is a Pentecostal moment.  We will each hear from God, what we need to hear, in our own tongue.

Back into the quiet sanctuary of earnest longings...with Love,  
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

If you would like to hear "One Voice" in a recorded quality (with lyrics), rather than the video of the live performance (above)...here is the link.

And if you would like to read an earlier post titled"This is the sound of one voice..." which also uses "One Voice," as its keynote...here is the link to that post.

"He entertains angels...who listens.."

"You'll never know how much I really love you,
You'll never know how much I really care,
...Listen, do you want to know a secret
Do you promise not to tell
Closer, let me whisper in your ear..."
-Lennon/McCartney

"Listen"...I remember how much I loved this song when I was ten years old.  It might have been because it was the first time I'd heard George sing (he was my favorite!).  Or perhaps it was because at ten, what I wanted...and needed...more than anything else, was to be listened to. I needed to believe that I was someone worthy of sitting "in conversation" with.  And I thought that George was singing just to me.  In fact, I was convinced of it. If I close my eyes, I can still see the small black vinyl 45rpm record spinning on our old record player, and when I hear it, I am - once again - smitten with hope.  It didn't really even matter why I loved it then, it was a song I couldn't get enough of.  I was sure that I, and I alone, was the sole reason it skyrocketed to #2 on the charts, just behind "Can't Buy Me Love," that year.   I wanted to be listened to, and George was promising me that, when we really love someone, and when we really care, we will listen...and be listened to.

Aren't we all hungry to be really, truly heard.  To know that what fills our hearts with love, peace, joy, inspiration...is meaningful to someone, might make a difference in their lives, and could possibly be the encouragement they need to feel less alone in the world.  I think we all want to know that our thoughts and feelings, insights and stories have poignancy.

But what about the desire to listen.   To hear someone else's story.  To discover what is most meaningful to the people we know and love...or even those we are just meeting for the first time.  This is my hunger.  And it's a hunger that for a long time I tried to ignore, or simply temper to the point of only asking the more light-hearted questions. 

My children sometimes think I am just too curious.  I ask their friends a million questions when we are in the car, driving to a soccer game or birthday party.  "What is your favorite subject in school?"  "Where did you move here from?"  "Do you like to play board games?" "What is the most interesting place you've ever been?" But it isn't mindless chatter,  personal probing, or small talk for me.  I really do enjoy hearing about how another person feels.  I like hearing the details of their childhood. The rich textures of remembered moments from a wedding, the birth of a child, the way it felt to knead the first loaf of bread they ever baked,  or the tactile memory of thow it felt to grind wheat berries, by hand, on large round millstones at an ancient monastery in France.  I like giving space to their stories, their feelings about those experiences, and their insights.

I am not listening to be polite.  I am not asking questions because I think I should.  I really, truly, genuinely am interested. 

But even in adult gatherings, I often felt unsure of myself.  For a long time I was embarrassed by my own interests in other people's stories.  I always seemed to be the person at a dinner party who wanted more and more details.  "What color were the curtains in the villa?"  "Did the woman offer you any insights about why she chose to devote her life to raising pygmy goats?"  "What did you feel like when you saw your husband for the first time on the dock at summer camp?"  "What did your father say to you just before he walked you down the aisle?"

But I am learning that this is not something to be embarrassed about.  It is not idle prattle.  When, as my friend, Chief Listening Officer (really!) of Educare Learning Institute,  Sandy Wilder, puts it, "we pull in next to someone and look out at their experience with them...from their point of view" we give them something that is greater than gold.  We honor their heart, their stories, their life experience...their wisdom and inspiration.  We tell them that they are worthy of our attention.  We remind them that the world is not, and never will be, spinning so fast that we can't slow down long enough and take a moment to listen to one another with genuine interest. 


For me the difference between being "nosey" and listening deeply, is in the details.  What am I interested in hearing?  Do I want "the inside scoop", am I asking about the lives of  people other than the person I am with, am I hoping to hear something no one else knows?  Or, am I truly interested in how the person I am sitting with experienced a situation, what insights they gathered, what lessons they learned, how they felt...and are feeling?

Mary Baker Eddy describes the untold blessings found in this kind of listening, when she wrote:

"He entertains angels who listens to the lispings of repentance
seen in a tear - happier than the conqueror of a world."

Sometimes all it take to turn a "wrathful and afflictive" experience, into a moment of courage, a lesson learned, or an opportunity for someone else to be blessed by the footprints we have left in the sand, is to have someone take the time to listen to us tell our stories.   In the telling we often hear how far we have come, how profoudly we were moved, how fundamentally we have been changed.

My friend Stacey shared this Youtube clip, "Children of Light," with me the other day...and it is worth every second you might give to viewing it.  It is about a teacher in Japan who is nurturing the lost art of listening in his students.  It shows the power of sharing our stories...and what happens when we really listen to one another.  Mr. Mifuyu remarks, following a compelling example of the impact on one child of a shared story, and how it loosened the tightness in her own heart:

"When people really listen, they live in your heart forever..."

As I think back over the years of all the stories I have told, and all the stories I have heard, I am stunned by what I now realize.  It is the people who have really listened to my heart, that have left the most lasting impression on my life.  In their listening, their deeper questioning, they have given me a window on my own experiences, insights, and the lessons I have learned.  Sometimes those listening partners have been a beloved four-legged companion.   Yes, I am now seeing, that my dearest friends, are those who have listened to, and shared with, me in times of heartbreak and celebration, inner inquiry and stream of consciousness awakenings.  And somehow, I have always learned as much from the questions they have asked, as I have from the stories they, too, were led to share during those feasts of Soul...that always turned into great potlucks...catered by our Father-Mother, God...who loves us all. 

And when we practice this kind of deeply-focused listening with others, it naturally rolls over into our moments of silence, and we begin to listen to God from that same space of hunger.  The banquet that follows is surprising, satisfying, and sweet.

Thank you dear friends.  I am deeply moved by your willingness to pull in next to me, and listen to my heart...with me.  You will live in my heart forever.  Forever...and ever...

I love you...
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

[photo credit: Nathaniel Wilder 2009]

"I Can Only Imagine..."

"...Surrounded by your glory
What will my heart feel?
Will I dance for you Jesus,
Or in awe of you be still?
Will I stand in your presence,
Or to my knees will I fall?
Will I sing Alelluja,
Will I be able to speak at all?
I can only imagine
I can only imagine..."
-     Mercy Me

AS much as I love this song, "I Can Only Imagine" by Mercy Me, I don't have to imagine...I know.  I have been surrounded by Christ's glory and my heart has felt it all...awe, the desire to dance, to fall to my knees, and to sing Alelluia...all at once.  I feel it whenever I stop throughout the day and just listen. 

It happened today.  It happened only an hour ago.  I had just put the girls to bed and came downstairs to return calls, respond to emails, and transfer the last load of laundry from the washer to the dryer.  On my way from their bedroom, upstairs, to my desk I decided to stop on the landing and just listen in the silence of the house breathing. 

I sat on the landing and gave Him my heart. 

"What do you have to say to me in this moment dear Father?" I asked.  "I want to remind you that I am the source of your desire to express order and beauty.  My ideas are orderly and clear...and therefore lovely...as Love and Principle are synonymous, you can't express order and not experience beauty." 

This may seem like a pretty simple and obvious message, but for me it was merciful.  As I'd been heading down the stairs I was actually beating myself up about how much I love to make things beautiful.  I was feeling a bit ridiculous about how happy it makes me to put beautiful flowers in vases, make neat stacks of clean laundry, shelve books in patterns of color and width of spine, carefully fold antique quilts collected through the years.

It reminded me of a moment four years ago when a friend brought her sister  by for a visit.  When we'd moved into our home I'd had a stunning wall of custom bookcases built in our great room.  It housed over a hundred books I'd collected as a voracious reader.  Each book was like a good friend.  As I'd finish reading a particular volume, I would write a note to my daughters inside.  The notes would tell them where I was in my life when I'd read the book, the feelings it had elicited, the insights gained, and any conclusions reached.  The books were my way of cataloging my feelings and thoughts so that my daughters might someday know me as I was.  The bookshelf was my way of putting my life in order.  Turning it into something beautiful. 

My friend's sister saw this the minute she walked in the door.  She looked at the wall of books...some of them shelved with spines vertical, some stacked horizontally...and exclaimed, "Your bookshelf is a quilt to you isn't it?  The colors and graphics, widths, depths, and heights of each spine has been placed carefully, hasn't it?  This is your quilt of ideas." 

I wanted to cry.  I felt known. 

So when I stopped on the stairs tonight and God spoke to me of Himself as the source of my love for beauty and order, it reminded me of that moment of being known, and a wave of peace and joy washed over me...refreshing and encouraging me...to be me...to love the me I am.

I don't have to imagine how it will feel to be standing in His presence, enveloped in His love, seen through His eyes and known...and I am singing Alleluiah...when I can speak at all.

I love the way that Mary Baker Eddy describes it:

"When will mankind awake to know their present ownership of all good, and praise and love the spot where God dwells most conspicuously in His reflection of love and leadership?  When will the world waken to the privilege of knowing God, the liberty and glory of His presence..."

You don't have to imagine...just stop and let Him speak to you.

with Love,
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

"Rainy Day People..."

"Rainy day people always seem to know
when it's time to call.
Rainy day people don't talk
they just listen till they've heard it all.
Rainy day lovers don't lie when they tell you
they've been down like you.
Rainy day people don't mind
if you're cryin' a tear or two…"

I woke up this morning to the sound of more rain.  I wanted to smile in my sleep, turn over and let it sing me back to the small village in Provence where the girls and I were harvesting armloads of fragrant lavender in my dreams, but alas it was a school day.  So I threw the covers off, blinked the fairy dust of neverland off my eyelashes, and shook myself free from the drowsy heat of a summer's day in the south of France before padding into the girls room to wrestle them out of bed.

The song I hummed as I walked through the butler's pantry (yes, this old house has one...a room for butlers with glass-fronted built-in cupboards for holding dishes, cabinets for linens, and drawers for "the silver, mum") was Gordon Lightfoot's "Rainy Day People." Its music fit my mood.  Its lyrics fit my heart.  I love rain…but, more importantly, I want to be a "Rainy Day People" kind of person. 

I'm not sure if it's that I'm really so intuitive about knowing "when it's time to call" a friend in need, or that I just call my friends alot and catch them in all of their need occasionally. Either way, I long to be a better listener.  I want to be the kind of friend who isn't always waiting for an opening in the conversation so that I can interject my own inspired thought or similar story...like a second grader with her hand raised, jumping up and down in her seat waiting for the teacher to call on her.  I want to "listen till I've heard it all"…until I've heard everything a friend has to say.  Until they are so spent from the telling that there is a real space of silence. 

I've been thinking a lot about the people who have had the greatest impact on my life -- especially the ones who have been there when I was hurting or feeling most alone in the world.  And there are some things that they all have in common.   

One is their ability to make me laugh at myself and the things that aren't really important--other people's opinions, the size of one's house/bank account/car, my past mistakes--without judgment. They seem to trust that between God's presence in my life and my longing to be right with Him, it will all work out. 

The other is a genuine interest in my motives, my hopes, my dreams, my aspirations.  For them my heart is good and the seeds of desire I cherish are precious...sometimes more precious to them than they even are to me.  They remind me that those desires are of God and therefore are a divine gift, not just for me and mine, but for everyone in the extended community of faith and hope I live--and love--in.  When I am just about ready to dismiss my long-held dreams as "ridiculous," they are there to remind me that God gave me those hopes for nurturing and cherishing.  That because, as Mary Baker Eddy says, "Desire is prayer" and "Prayer is God's gracious means for accomplishing whatever has been successfully done for the Christianization and health of mankind," then by mathematical reasoning "Prayer…is God's gracious means" for accomplishing his mission in me.  They encourage me to trust Him as the only Creator of any good desire as much as I trust Him with my children each morning when they leave for school.

I want to be like these friends. 

The other thing that strikes me as true about each of these "Rainy Day People" is that they don't live a life of reciprocity, but of generosity. 

I am reminded of Jesus' example following the Last Supper when he washes the disciples feet.  He doesn't wash their feet, and then tell them that they should now wash his feet in return, but he recommends that they "pay it forward."  He says, "If I then your Lord, and Master, have washed your feet; ye also ought to wash one another's feet. For I have given you an example, that ye should do as I have done to you."  He doesn't ask for "pay backs"…but for "pay it forwards."  He doesn't get up and say "my turn"…but turns them towards another.

I want to be a "Rainy Day People" person.  I want to be like my friends.

"Rainy day lovers don't hide love inside,
they just pass it on."

loving the rain...and the "Rainy day People," 
Kate

"Smell the Color 9..."

"I would take "no" for an answer
Just to know I heard You speak
And I'm wonderin' why I've never
Seen the signs they claim they see
Are the special revelations
Meant for everybody but me?
Maybe I don't truly know You
Or maybe I just simply believe…"
- Chris Rice

It was cold, cloudy and drippingly gray on the Cape that afternoon.  The small church seated less than 50 in its auditorium. By the time we arrived for the talk they were seating overflow guests in the Sunday School down the hall. 

I was distracted and I don't think I had ever felt so empty.  There wasn't a "reason," I couldn't put my finger on a cause.  It just felt as if all the light and inspiration had drained out of some spigot in the bottom of my big toe and I didn't know how to get it back. 

We had moved to Boston earlier that year to serve an organization we loved.  When we considered making the move from the comfort of our small university town in Colorado, it was easy to feel inspired and courageous, selfless and willing.  But once we got there and discovered that our commute was going to be about an hour and a half each way, and our work schedules were not in synch, and that I would find the tasks in my job menial and mind-numbing…well, we were not such happy campers.   All those noble motives and ideals seemed to pale in the actual light of a 15-hour work day…door to door.

The further I indulged my sense of disappointment, the less inspired I became.  What was I thinking...accepting a job as a file clerk when I had been a school principal?  Didn 't this organization realize how over-qualified I was?  Was I crazy to think that the mission of the office--and the materials I would be responsible for--would overshadow my sense of personal achievement and  job status?  Before long I was feeling an emptiness so hollow that I could hear the echo of every complaint reverberating through me like an out of tune bell.

I didn't want to feel this way.  I longed for the kind of quiet satisfaction I had felt when I'd hungered so desperately to make a difference in the world.  The kind of longing that had led me to Boston and to be willing to do the work I had accepted.   But I couldn't seem to find the heartbeat of that Soul-animated lifeforce which had impelled me to consider a life of selfless service.   The more I felt for it and was met with a cold, pulse-less silence…the more I wanted it.  And the more I wanted it, the less my work satisfied me.   It felt cyclical and bleak…and yet I still found myself waking each morning with this glimmer of hope that today some spark of inspiration would catch fire in me and reignite the passion for living with a spiritual purpose that had brought me there.  I just wanted to feel God in my life.  I wanted to hear some message of "good and faithful servant," to sense some small indication that I was on the right track with Him.

"'...Cause I can sniff, I can see
And I can count up pretty high
But these faculties aren't getting me
Any closer to the sky
But my heart of faith keeps poundin'
So I know I'm doin' fine
But sometimes finding You
Is just like trying to
Smell the color nine..."

That weekend had been particularly desolate.  I had brought work home with me and I couldn't even make myself open the manilla file folders stacked at my elbow.  I had spent hours sitting at the kitchen table looking out the window at the gray-green water lapping at the shoreline while cup after cup of untouched tea cooled in front of me.

When a friend at church suggested that we drive further down the Cape for an inspirational talk by the sister of a friend, I was really quite indifferent.  "Sure…why not…at least I will have an excuse for why I never touched those files," I thought.

But once we arrived I was thinking this was even worse.  At least at home I would be in my jammies, I could have my tea, and if I got really miserable I could turn on the TV and watch an old movie. 

Sitting in the cold Sunday School to hear a talk being given in another room seemed torturous.  It is hard enough to concentrate when the speaker is standing in front of you, but sitting in hard chairs without anything to look at except the wrinkled collar on the blue and white striped oxford cloth shirt worn by the guy sitting in front of me...was agony.  I really hoped something would penetrate my coldness, but my optimism was fading fast.  I decided I would listen for just one word or phrase I could take home with me.  I reached for an old magazine that was on the "give away" table near my chair by the door, and found a pen in my jacket pocket.  During the first 30 minutes of the talk I doodled away on the back cover of the magazine filling in all but one small square that I reserved for that one poignant message. 

When it came I was not expecting it…really.  I had been listening intently and nothing was getting through.  I felt as if I was hearing her words from under water when suddenly as clear as a bell I heard the phrase, "infinitely near."   That was it.  Infinitely near.  In thinking of God as infinite, it was always something big and "out there."  But an infinitely near God's voice penetrated deep beneath the surface of mere hope and faith to a place of oneness, a space so intimate that I couldn't sense it…any more than I can feel my own heartbeat, or find my own pulse, or see my own talents.  

This phrase "infinitely near" became a space of rest for my hope.  I no longer needed a rest from my longing for God. I rested upon that longing as the promise that God was with me IN that longing.  In fact He was the source of it.  My desire to experience Him, to sense His presence was a sure indication that I knew what He felt like and wanted to go deeper.   That He had already penetrated my complacency and dug beneath the surface of my simple senses to the place where, as Chris Rice sings, "trying to find You is just like trying to smell the color nine."  You can't sense with the senses what is part of you. 

"... Now I've never 'felt the presence'
But I know You're always near
And I've never 'heard the calling'
But somehow You've led me right here
So I'm not looking for burning bushes
Or some divine graffiti to appear
I'm just beggin' You for some wisdom
And I believe You're puttin' some here

Smell the color nine?
But nine's not a color
And even if it were you can't smell a color
That's my point exactly..."

This phrase "infinitely near" has given me a peace that is "beyond understanding"…beyond feeling, and seeing, and tasting, and hearing and touching. It is  deeper than the ocean and higher than the sky, it is nearer than my heartbeat and further than I ever hope to reach.   I went back to work not inspired to be something--a title, a mission--but to live in consonance with that deeper pulse that was so infinitely near.  No matter what...this is the rhythm I dance to...this is the beat that drives me...this is the song that sings below the surface of the quiet..."infinitely near."

It is the smell of the color 9.

With love,
Kate