This was supposed to be about satellite dishes, but that will have to wait until next time. Stay tuned.
I’ve been thinking more about a Tai’ Chi class I take during lunch hour at work. I started because I heard it was good for dealing with stress and bad knees. I need help with both. But I have come to realize what a good exercise it is for my spirit. “Tai’ Chi” means “supreme ultimate” and it reminds me of the “Supreme Ultimate” we gather around each week.
I had to learn how to stand. One stands on a part of the foot called “the bubbling well.” That reminded me of the little hands churning up the baptismal font a few weeks ago. Willa said the best place to baptize was moving water. Running water.
My mother told us during camping trips to drink from living waters, not standing waters. She showed us in streams where the water was aerating and full of oxygen and life. I thought of the need to aerate my soul – to let it run over the rocks of prayer, community, and service to others. Like running water, it needs to keep moving and growing, gathering life, joining with others as it travels along.
But back to Tai’ Chi. Another thing I learned is that my soles (soul?) must stand well-planted and balanced. Perhaps it’s no coincidence that the Spanish word for the bottom of the foot is “planta.” My feet keep me connected to the earth, to life.
I have to remember lots for a proper Tai’ Chi stance, before exercises even begin: lean forward, keep my head up, keep my balance, draw my energy down within myself – a good road map for my faith life.
Actually Tai’ Chi was developed by monks as a way of defending themselves without harming their attacker. They could draw the attacker past and away from them by a yielding and turning rather than by resistance and aggression. Take the energy from the action and absorb it. Use the good energy and let the bad energy flow through and dissipate. Even before I heard about the monks, I was thinking of it as a sort of “martial arts for the pacifist.”
Tai’ Chi teaches physical balance of movement and energy, and I also need that balance in my faith life. This whole energy thing is a paradox. I get into the stance, support my weight, let my energy sink down within me, and ... feel my legs REALLY burn. The Tai’ Chi master says this is ok – that what I’m feeling is energy. I think of the road to Emmaus: “Did not our hearts burn within us while he talked to us?”
The master walks around the room correcting stance or movement. He gets in close and guides with a light touch, almost imperceptible. He stands directly in my energy and adds his energy to mine. This is how God is with us. We may hardly realize it until the light touch has redirected our energy, our stance, our movements. But we know we feel better. And we know we have been changed.
Letting Go
I sit far away from St. Luke's looking out the patio view from what used to be my parents' home. Now it is no more; my father died three years ago, and my mother moved to an assisted living apartment in the next town over.
My parents loved this view. They picked out their lot because of the view. You gaze out over the Santa Clara Valley, where I was raised - out across the orchards of lemon, and orange, and avocado. My memories of this place are forever linked with the fragrance of orange blossoms, and I smell them on the wind now.
God brings us so much on the wind. Sometimes the Spirit moves over this land in a hot restless wind called the Santa Ana (Here in Santa Paula, we call it "the East Wind", because that's where it comes from, dragging the hot gritty feel of the desert with it.) But this morning there is very little wind - it is cool and the view of the mountains is shrouded in a haze of mist and L.A.'s smog traveling up various valleys to affect us as well.
My sister, my oldest brother, and I are gathering the last items from my parents' sixty years together (along with items stretching back through my mother's 90 years). There will be a yard sale tomorrow, and people will come and suggest that these things have much less value than we think they do.
I was reading the Confession of Sin [in the Episcopal Book of Common Prayer, or BCP] during morning prayer and realized for the first time a very old truth; something my faith has tried to get me to believe for fifty-two years: that God, like parents, lets us start over continuously. At least I hope you have or had parents like that. And if you don't or didn't - - try to know that you do have this truth in God.
Listen:
"We are truly sorry and we humbly repent.
For the sake of your Son Jesus Christ,
have mercy on us and forgive us;
that we might delight in your will,
and walk in your ways..."
(BCP p. 79)
How many times have I said that prayer in my life, but thought more about my lapses than about God's power? If I believe in God's forgiveness, then I must believe that every day, every minute, is a fresh start. God constantly sets us free from ourselves, to delight in God's will.
I am thinking about so many prayers today, while my sister sleeps and my brother has not yet arrived, and the work of the day is not yet upon us. I look at the outline of the mountains my father so loved, and recite the psalm from his funeral; his protective steadfastness surrounds me:
My parents loved this view. They picked out their lot because of the view. You gaze out over the Santa Clara Valley, where I was raised - out across the orchards of lemon, and orange, and avocado. My memories of this place are forever linked with the fragrance of orange blossoms, and I smell them on the wind now.
God brings us so much on the wind. Sometimes the Spirit moves over this land in a hot restless wind called the Santa Ana (Here in Santa Paula, we call it "the East Wind", because that's where it comes from, dragging the hot gritty feel of the desert with it.) But this morning there is very little wind - it is cool and the view of the mountains is shrouded in a haze of mist and L.A.'s smog traveling up various valleys to affect us as well.
My sister, my oldest brother, and I are gathering the last items from my parents' sixty years together (along with items stretching back through my mother's 90 years). There will be a yard sale tomorrow, and people will come and suggest that these things have much less value than we think they do.
I was reading the Confession of Sin [in the Episcopal Book of Common Prayer, or BCP] during morning prayer and realized for the first time a very old truth; something my faith has tried to get me to believe for fifty-two years: that God, like parents, lets us start over continuously. At least I hope you have or had parents like that. And if you don't or didn't - - try to know that you do have this truth in God.
Listen:
"We are truly sorry and we humbly repent.
For the sake of your Son Jesus Christ,
have mercy on us and forgive us;
that we might delight in your will,
and walk in your ways..."
(BCP p. 79)
How many times have I said that prayer in my life, but thought more about my lapses than about God's power? If I believe in God's forgiveness, then I must believe that every day, every minute, is a fresh start. God constantly sets us free from ourselves, to delight in God's will.
I am thinking about so many prayers today, while my sister sleeps and my brother has not yet arrived, and the work of the day is not yet upon us. I look at the outline of the mountains my father so loved, and recite the psalm from his funeral; his protective steadfastness surrounds me:
"I lift up my eyes to the hills; from where is my help to come?
My help comes from the Lord, the maker of heaven and earth.
He will not let your foot be moved
and he who watched over you will not fall asleep." (Psalm 121:1-3)
My help comes from the Lord, the maker of heaven and earth.
He will not let your foot be moved
and he who watched over you will not fall asleep." (Psalm 121:1-3)
I look out at my mother's garden after spending the night beneath one of her quilts; her earthy creativity surrounds me:
"For you yourself created my inmost parts,
you knit me together in my mother's womb.
I will thank you because I am marvelously made;
your works are wonderful, and I know it well." (Psalm 139:12-13)
you knit me together in my mother's womb.
I will thank you because I am marvelously made;
your works are wonderful, and I know it well." (Psalm 139:12-13)
I think of the physical imperfections and blemishes which mark each one of us as the special one we are. A dropped stitch, a different color thread; the garment becomes distinguishable from all the others.
The sun rises, the smoggy haze almost obscures the mountains, the work will soon start, and my back has anticipatory tiredness. We will sift through the grain of my parents' life, trying to let the chaff be taken off by the wind. Some of it will land in other hands; some of it will be gone. We will take some to our own homes, and tell stories about it until the next sifting and winnowing.
The air is full of letting go. It's what the Spirit moves over, creating and groaning, forgiving and releasing. It's the wind that strips us down to who we really are. Little by little, the Spirit erodes us, sculpting our truest self. Just look at the increased definition of the oldest faces among us.
The air is full of memories and letting go; they float upon it like balloons released from one's hand, full of color and glee and incredible lightness. Lift your face and feel the soft stories of ages of people. Know that some of the stories are your own.
The air is full of letting go. It's what the Spirit moves over, creating and groaning, forgiving and releasing. It's the wind that strips us down to who we really are. Little by little, the Spirit erodes us, sculpting our truest self. Just look at the increased definition of the oldest faces among us.
The air is full of memories and letting go; they float upon it like balloons released from one's hand, full of color and glee and incredible lightness. Lift your face and feel the soft stories of ages of people. Know that some of the stories are your own.
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