Dear Members and Friends,
With the warming of the weather, the first blossoms are sure to emerge. The turning of the seasons are an invitation to pay attention and be nourished by the natural world. Such a time is an ideal time to re-commit to a spiritual practice, whether it be a gratitude journal, daily mindfulness meditation, attending a garden or canvass, or
Given the ongoing deeply disturbing news reports about policies and actions of the current administration, I encourage you not to get consumed by it all and end up numbing out and bottling up anxiety.
Limit your intake yet stay informed—and make time for a daily spiritual practice, even if just 15-20 minutes. And gather with others—know that you aren’t the only one deeply concerned. And when the opportunity rises to act in conjunction with others, take it. Find the joy in showing up and voicing what is true for you.
Below are some poems to support you in taking some time for reflection. If you would like to share and listen to others as to how they resonate for you, you are welcome to join me for the last three gatherings of Poetry for the Spirit, held on March 12, 19, and 26 on ZOOM.
If you wish to learn about the accompaniment volunteer work with undocumented immigrants, the Make the Road accompaniment training is this Saturday, March 15, 10:00 AM, at 768 Fairfield Ave in Bridgeport.
It was good to be with you this past weekend, and I return to Westport on Saturday morning. At 2:00 PM on Saturday in the Meeting House, you are welcome to join me and some of the Pastoral Care Chaplains for Spiritual Ground for Navigating Challenging Times.
In Peace and Love,
Alan
Praying by Mary Oliver
It doesn’t have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch
a few words together and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t
a contest but the doorway
into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.
White Heron by John Ciardi
What lifts the heron leaning on the air
I praise without a name. A crouch, a flare,
a long stroke through the cumulus of trees,
a shaped thought at the sky — then gone. O rare!
Saint Francis, being happiest on his knees,
would have cried Father! Cry anything you please
But praise. By any name or none. But praise
the white original burst that lights
the heron on his two soft kissing kites.
When saints praise heaven lit by doves and rays,
I sit by pond scums till the air recites
It’s heron back. And doubt all else. But praise.
“Kindness” by Naomi Shihab Nye, an American-Palestinian poet.
Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.
Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.
Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to gaze at bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
It is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.
