"to see past this horizon..."

"All the things
that used to matter,
they don't mean so much today;
Toss the seeds and watch them scatter.
The birds and wind take them away,
till there is nothing in my way.

I can't see past this horizon,
I can't say what's waiting there.
I never sang 'cause I knew something,
I sang because it was a prayer.
The finest one that I could bear..."

Carrie Newcomer's new song, "On the Brink of Everything," inspired by Parker J. Palmer's book of the same title, had me at hello. Partly because it is Carrie, but also because it is so enigmatic and paradoxical.

The first time I listened to it, I was sure she was referring to being on the brink of self-discovery. Then I looked at the subtitle for Palmer's book, On the Brink of Everything: Grace, Gravity, and Getting Old, and I wondered if it wasn't a reference to on the brink of "passing."  Finally, I gave up trying to figure it out. In truth, it just didn't matter. I only had to listen to it from where my own heart was. And for me, it was about being on the brink of a new horizon.

So I stepped back, and surveyed my own heart. I'd been climbing hard for a number of months. Bushwhacking through a jungle of self. Scrambling through a scree field of ego -- the ground constantly shifting as I uncovered yet one more instance of self-preservation -- my awkward stumble through all the I/me/mine-thinking. But I was above tree-line now. I could see the summit. I was on the brink.

But of what?

Absolutely nothing new.

Metaphorically, the "air" I was breathing was made up of the same elements -- oxygen, hydrogen [or spiritually, Life, Truth, and Love.] The Source of my thinking was unchanged. I was the reflection of the one Infinite Mind. All that this Mind included - intelligence, inspiration, insight - was still just as present and probe-able to me. I was not going to find more of anything -- anywhere.

All the Love that I had ever known was still with me. Love was never more present, more powerful, more attentive, or embracing in one moment or place, than another. The spiritual climb I had been on, had not made Love more accessible or intense. The view of the summit seemed closer. But in fact, if I could see it, it was really a false summit. Was I ever going to reach a place where I could rest from my desire to know more of the infinite nature of God's love.

So, what was I on the brink of? Perhaps this. Just this. An inscrutable knowing: that every footstep taken, puts us on the brink of the next footstep. There is no "arriving." We are already there.

We live at the standpoint of our oneness with divine Love. Every moment is another opportunity to look -- not above us, or ahead of us -- but next to us. To see, hear, feel, taste, and know that:

"the Lord is with me,
blessed am I...”

I remember the first time I fell in love. I didn't care where we went. I didn't care if we did anything. I didn't care when we got "there," -- or, even if we returned. I only cared that my hand was in his. I only cared that it was his voice I heard, his presence I was in. Wherever we were, whatever we were facing -- it was all good, because we were together.

Each step we took, we were on the brink of everything. We were on the verge of a moment where we would see something, and it would be new because we would be seeing it together -- through the lens of "us."

For me, this is this moment.

This very moment. For all of us. We are not on the brink of new careers, new relationships, new adventures -- big events and grand accomplishments. We are on the brink of one more step with our hand in the hand of the One we love. The One who loves us more than all the world. Because in our relationship with Him, there are no others. We are "all the world" to Him -- and He to us.

Just as a mother completely loves each of her children. So God completely loves each of us. We are not loved by God, in the context of "others." To our divine Father-Mother, there are no others. When I am with one of my daughters, I am not thinking of her, in the context of her sisters.  I am absolutely and completely with her. I am delighting in her.  I am focused on her.  And it is the same with her sisters.  As Hymn 237 promises, we are:

"one with Him, forever near...”

No comparisons. No competition. No rushing ahead to get out in front of the crowd. No scrambling through scree fields to be the first to plant our flag. Just step-by-step, hand-in-hand with the One we love.  And the One who loves us. Our eyes, not on "the summit," but on the face of our Beloved.  Together with Him, on the brink of everything -- one step at a time -- a whole new world of living love together. 

And if we really love Him, we will love what he loves.  We will look at ourselves with great affection.  We will spend time with His children - seeking to discover about them, what He knows and loves. Not rushing on to the next false summit.  We will linger in the moment -- listening to them, in the same the way that we listen to Him.

offered with Love,

Kate

"Breath of heaven, hold me together..."

"Breath of Heaven
Hold me together
Be forever near me
Breath of Heaven*..."
- Amy Grant

Recently, the editors at Church Alive asked me to write about a time when "church" played a role in my Christmas memories. It seems like I have a heart-shifting, church-related experience every Christmas. But this is the one that came to mind:

"The greatest gift..."

I’d traced the path from our house, to the church we attended nearby, almost a thousand times that year. But this particular winter night, as a million stars hung brightly from an inverted bowl of midnight blue velvet, my steps were heavy and my heart sank low. We’d lost a baby that year…a baby who’d moved in my heart, long before she moved in my womb. Because of my size, there were those who wondered if I’d just imagined her and thought it was some sort of psychosomatic pregnancy. There were others who’d mourned our loss and feared my descent into a quiet sort of madness. But her still birth was very real. Leaving me, her mother, siding with the latter group—those who were praying for my fragile peace.

That particular night, so close to Christmas, I was months beyond her loss and yet closer than ever to my sorrow. Our church was holding a Christmas Hymn Sing and I was carrying a plate of cookies with one hand, and holding our kindergarten-aged daughter’s mittened hand in my other. Earlier that spring I’d imagined this Christmas with a baby in my lap and our sweet daughter opening presents under the tree. And although I’d tried so hard to be at peace with our loss, that night the tears froze on my cheeks as we walked through the cold December air.

Arriving at church we were greeted by a sea of love; it washed over our small family, and carried our daughter along from loving embrace to loving embrace. She was surrounded by an ocean of kindness, and I was deeply grateful. On the surface I’d been functioning normally for months, but just under the surface I was always on the verge of tears. As members and guests found their seats in the beautifully decorated auditorium, and my husband joined other musician on the platform to lead the singing, I took a seat at the back. I didn’t know if I could make it through the hymn sing without putting my face in my hands and weeping.

But as the first song was suggested, and the musicians played through the opening verse, I felt a voice…yes, felt a voice echoing through my being. It was the same feeling I’d felt, in that very church auditorium, the day our baby first moved in my womb and the words from Luke flooded my heart, “Be it unto me, according to thy will.” Feeling it again was like a divine reminder. I had felt our daughter move, I wasn’t mad. It was glorious. It was more than I’d hoped for, a sensation I’d only dreamed of experiencing during years of other early pregnancy miscarriages. I’d felt her move. I’d known the kind of love that defines the word “compassion” in Hebrew as “by extension, the womb as cherishing the foetus” (Strong’s Hebrew Dictionary). The foetal stage is the one where the babe’s life is not obvious, unseen to the observer, but completely known to the mother. And I’d experienced that awareness. I knew what it felt like to love the promise of what was unseen, without measure. This was the greatest gift in the world.

The auditorium became a manger that night. My church family had become shepherds, kings, wisemen, and cooing doves…midwives at the birth of something holy in me. My mourning had been turned into dancing. The Christ, the consciousness of man’s unconditional innocency, worth, purity, goodness, beauty, and promise, had found its breath, and was singing an “Allelujah” in my heart. It was as if each chorus rose to meet the next, in a crescendo of peace.

By the time we left the church later that evening my heart was no longer broken, it was whole. I’d felt the presence of a Love that delights in the unseen, celebrates the power of peace, and knows a love, that alone is life. The tears that froze on my cheeks that night, as we walked home together, were tears of wonder and joy.


*"Breath of Heaven," was written by Amy Grant, but the version sung by Sara Groves, takes me apart.  The clip in the first link is Amy's performance and the video sticks to the nativity story, but the second video, paired with Sara's extraordinary recording, although a bit rough and dramatic, underscores the human passion and pathos of the larger story.  Both are moving.  I love them each for different reasons.

"I pray you dance..."

"…I hope you never fear
those mountains in the distance.
Never settle for the path
of least resistance.

Living might mean taking chances...
but they're worth taking.
Lovin' might be a mistake...
but it's worth making.

Give the heavens above
more than just a passing glance…
and dance…"

I love Leann Wommack's version of "I Hope You Dance," and used it in an earlier post by the same title a few years ago, but this version of "I Hope You Dance," by Ronan Keating takes me apart...especially that last line.

Dance seems to be an inspirational theme today...friends Heather, Traci*, and Sandy have posted dance-related inspiration...so I think I'll stay with their theme,  and walk  forward into this sea of whirling dervishes a bit and see where it takes me.

I am a dancer...ballet was my discipline, but take me to a wedding, or a country bar with a great band, and I'm just as happy as a child.  I love the feeling of having the moving air lift my hair off my shoulders, while my bare feet skip and slide through the long grass at a blue grass festival,  or worn slippers...of the palest pink leather...leap off the wooden floorboards of an old stage...I am in heaven.

My body is my partner in those moments.  We are a celebration of the marriage between mind, body, and spirit.  There is a sense of wholeness in the way music is interpreted as movement.  It is this sense of wholeness, that brings the coincidence of divinity with humanity into clear focus for me....almost like no other single experience or act.   To understand God as the divine Choreographer is the definition of "integrity" for me.

Integrity, integration, integral...nothing separate, fragmentary, silo-ed, categorized...no hierarchy between Mind, Soul, Spirit...Love.   Mary Baker Eddy,  in Miscellaneous Writings 1883 - 1896:

"In Science,
body is the servant of Mind,
not its master:
Mind is supreme.."

And since the body is the servant of Mind (one of the seven synonymous names for God) then, it is also the servant of Love, Principle, Truth, Life, Soul, and Spirit.

The body, dancing to the music of Love's urging, embraces a friend, carries a child out of harm's way, walks any distance to reach someone in need.

The body, swaying to the rhythms of Truth's demanding, swings its legs over the edge and rises from the bed of pain, sweeps the floor, swings a hammer during a Habitat for Humanity project.

The body, stepping to the precision of Principle's march, places a firm, but gentle hand on the shoulder of a despairing neighbor, neatly braids the child's hair, bends to lift the weary and the weak.

The body, leaping at the opportunity to serve Spirit, joyfully bounds onto the basketball court, quickly steps into the fray, effortlessly slips into the hand of the fearful offering comfort.

The body, weaving beauty at Soul's persuasion, sweeps her bow across a cello's strings, breathes a lullaby through the nursery, paints a garden in the midst of urban blight.

The body, poised in anticipation of Love's direction, sits in stillness with the widow, expectantly watches for the errant child, patiently serves, persistently waits.

This body...that so faithfully serves Mind's holy, sacred purpose...is beautiful, graceful, flexible, strong, and full of promise. 

Let it dance...

This was a helpful reminder yesterday, when everything in me said, "you can't possibly move freely"...I just kept repeating, "let it dance..."  And it did.

I pray you dance...with Love,
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

*And if you need something to remind you of how much fun dancing is, watch this "Dancing at the Movies" video...thanks Traci for the reminder!! 

"I'm hanging by a moment here with you..."

"...I'm desperate for changing,
I'm starving for truth,
I'm closer to where I started,
I'm chasing after you.
I'm falling even more in love with you.
Letting go of all I've held on to.
I'm standing here until you make me move.
I'm hanging by a moment here with you...
I'm living for the only thing I know..."
- Lifehouse

A friend's posting of some favorite Lifehouse songs on Facebook, reminded me of this piece written soon after I first heard, "Hanging by a Moment," while sitting alone in our house, in the middle of the night, not so very long ago:

This house feels so quiet.  So empty and alone, but I have never felt so held.  So completely loved. 

My children are either at their dads, or in their own apartments.  My husband is working in a far away city, with no plans for a visit home or an end date to his assignment there. My mother, sisters, and brothers all live in distant states, and although I know a few people here, there is no one I feel like I could call in the middle of the night.   But I have never felt so safe, so sure, so loved...so secure. 

It is all about You.  It is all about You, my beloved Father-Mother God.  It is all about feeling Your encompassing love, trusting Your plan in my life, patiently waiting for Your direction, guidance, purpose in us all.

No matter how desperate I feel sometimes...desperate for a strategy to unfold, hungry for a change of course, grasping wildly for the next chapter to begin...I know that it is only in this space of "hanging by a moment here with you" that I will find real peace and happiness.  And it won't be when you make me move.  It won't be when You bring him home, or they walk back through the door, or she returns from far away, when he is doing something different, or we are in this place or that...I know that the only true living is living in this moment here with You. 

In the darkness or the light, in the sorrow or joy, in love or walking through the garden of Gethsemane, in poverty or plenty...You are there...You are here.  And I am never, ever, doing anything more wonderful or on purpose than "hanging in this moment here with You."

I am falling even more in love with you.  But it isn't happening because you have made all of my dreams come true, or because you have even met all my "needs" or the hopes and dreams of the people I love.  I love you...because you first loved me. 

I love you because when I go back to where I started...there was You.  I have always known You.  You have always been there...here, within me.  I have always sought out your touch...Love.  I have always reached for your beauty...Soul.  I have always danced with your joy...Spirit.  I have always listened for your voice...Truth. My every breath draws you in...Life.  You set the rhythm of my heart...Principle.  I wake each morning filled with your thoughts...Mind.  I have always, always, always...wanted You.  You have filled me with the knowledge of my birthright...my family name...my native language...your face is the one I seek in the mirror to remind me that I am...well, that I am...that I am Yours...and you are mine.  My Father, Mother, Creator, Husband, Counselor, King...my great Love. 

I am not waiting for something to change so that I can feel at peace and finally settle into a spiritual practice that allows me to seek you.  It is because I am..right here, and right now... "hanging in this moment here with you" that I am at peace...waiting for you to make me move....dance, sing, pray, rest in your love.

There is nothing more for me to do...I'm falling even more in love with you.

"...Forgetting all I'm lacking
Completely incomplete
I'll take your invitation
You take all of me..

"There's nothing else to lose
There's nothing else to find
There's nothing in the world
That could change my mind..."

No, there's nothing else to lose, there's nothing else to find, there's nothing in this world that could ever change my mind....I'm falling even more in love with You.

Yours,
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

[within this post there are links to three different versions of this song]