Mining the Now

by Chris Koellhoffer, IHM   September 7, 2023

You’re doing it right now. And not just now, but 25,000 times today. Probably without any awareness unless breathing is made more challenging by respiratory issues. You’re breathing. Inhaling. Exhaling. Over and over.

So why not make of our breath a prayer? No equipment needed except our attention and intention. We can experience the simple practice of praying with the breath, what I like to call breathprayer, every morning as we greet the dawn and every evening as we gratefully drift off to sleep. And any and many times in-between, especially when a pause or a centering is needed or desired.

We know that breath is a sign of life. Our human life cycles testify to its beginnings and endings. Perhaps we have stood among the concerned and eager faces in a delivery room. Listened expectantly and leaned forward as if one body, awaiting the first wail of a newborn. And when that longed-for cry broke through the hush, perhaps we have wanted to bow our heads in worship at the miracle that another breath, another new life, was visible and among us.

Or perhaps we have sat in stillness night after night as the shadows deepened around a sickbed. Whispered prayers of pleading or made promises to God, if only…. Listened intently as the pauses between one labored breath and the next lengthened. Witnessed a final deep sigh as breath, life, departed the body and ended our long vigil of accompaniment. Perhaps we have then wanted to bow our heads in worship, knowing ourselves in the presence of holy mystery.

Inhaling and exhaling, such simple, basic human acts, so easily adapted to our prayer. In the ancient practice of breathprayer, we connect to Ruah, Spirit. We remember Jesus’ appearance to the disciples who had gathered in a locked room after his death. (John 20:19-22) We imagine him looking into those haunted and terrified faces, revealing wounds in his hands and side as proof that he was indeed risen and alive. And we participate in the joy and utter relief in that locked room when Jesus exhaled and breathed peace, Spirit, on his disciples.

In breathprayer, we first pay attention to how our breath is in any given moment. Steady? Anxious? Weary? Rapid? Relaxed? However our breathing may be, the Holy One blesses it. After a few moments of attentiveness to our breathing in and breathing out, we may want to continue praying with the breath alone. Or we may use a line from  Scripture. Or add an intention for the day, such as “Holy One,” (as we breathe in), “breathe through me” (as we breathe out).

I once heard an ancient parable claiming that it is the prayers of the many that hold up the world and keep the earth from disintegrating into ashes. I’m sure the Holy One has something more to do with that! But what I understand as the spiritual core of that statement is that prayer breathed with intentionality is an antidote to attitudes of hatred, racism, indifference, and cruelty that have the potential to burn up and destroy our earth and all who call it home. In contrast, I suspect there are few daily moments more tender or selfless than coming together with no intention other than to hold in love and compassion the known and unspoken needs of our world.

When we enter into breathprayer individually or collectively, we become, with the grace of the Holy One, agents of healing. We create what Judy Cannato called fields of compassion, exhaling tenderness and welcome and a deepening sense of kinship.

So if you are new to breathprayer, I invite you to try it. If you’re a long-time practitioner, thank you. And now I’ll simply stop writing, exhale a blessing to you, and envision all of us breathing closer to fulfillment God’s dream for our beautiful yet wounded world.

Takeaway
Sit in stillness with the Holy One.
Spend some time noticing how you feel as you inhale and exhale.
After a few minutes, you may wish to add words or an intention to accompany your breath.
Continue inhaling and exhaling this breathprayer for as long as you wish.

Featured Image: Zac Durant, Unsplash

NOTE:
Thank you for returning to my blog, Mining the Now, after my brief hiatus during the month of August. I hope that time was restorative for you as it was for me.

And thank you for holding in prayer the Sisters, Servants of the Immaculate Heart of Mary (Immaculata) who were part of a guided retreat I offered August 8-15 at Villa Maria Retreat House, their beautiful new retreat center in Stone Harbor, NJ.

Thank you in advance for remembering specially my niece and Godchild, Lauren Kline, and her husband-to-be, Peter Wilkins, who will be married this weekend, September 9.

And please hold in prayer all who will be part of the next retreat I’ll be leading:
September 15-22:  Guided retreat for the Sisters of Mercy and Associates, Sea Isle City, NJ

Thank you!

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Enter your email address in the space provided and then click on “Subscribe” and follow any prompts. You’ll then be subscribed to automatically receive any future blog posts from Mining the Now. 

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Thank you for following!

by Chris Koellhoffer, IHM    July 28, 2023

During the summer months when I’m at home, I go out to the patio before 8 AM to water and check on my container garden and tiny flower garden. The timing of my visit often coincides with my downstairs neighbors who are preparing to go out in a van for the day. One of those residents waits on the patio in his wheelchair. As soon as he sees me, he begins directing me without words: pour the watering can on this pot of mint, not that one; use the shears on this bit of lavender, not the one over there. We also have a daily ritual where I snip a sprig of mint, he sniffs it, and he then gestures for me to add it to his backpack.

This morning he surprised me by wanting one of the flowers from the black eyed Susan patch. I was about to clip one and offer it, but no, he wanted a specific flower. From a bed of over a hundred blooms. “This one?” I would ask, and he would shake his head “No.” Finally I landed on the one he wanted so I cut it and carried it up to him. He sniffed the offered flower tentatively, then held my hand that was holding the black eyed Susan, and simply gazed at it. He kept gazing, with great tenderness.

I’ve been wondering what he saw that I didn’t see. What made him single out that one particular blossom? What did he notice? What caught his attention? What summoned him to pause and take a long look?

Our lives are often so full and lived at such an accelerated pace that simply to pause might seem a luxury. Joan Chittister observes that when we can’t remember how long it has been since we simply sat and looked at something we love, it has been way too long. Even the hard-working fuzzy bumblebee, moving from flower to flower and setting in motion the complex process of honey-making, lingers. Bees are selective, hovering and discerning before landing on the blossom of their choice. Pausing and gazing are an essential part of their search.

Gazing helps us attend to the holy that surrounds us in nature, art, and other people. We pause in stillness. We contemplate. We look with soft eyes and without judgment. We open ourselves to wonder.

So we might ask: what have we been gazing at this summer (or any season)? Where have our eyes lingered? What has captured our attention and invited us to look long and lovingly? With whom, with what, have we chosen to “waste” our time? Gazing reveals who or what we value and cherish.

In our pausing and our gazing, may we look with compassion at our beautiful yet wounded world. And when we do, “Let’s Remake the World” as Gregory Orr suggests:

“Let’s remake the world with words.
Not frivolously, nor
to hide from what we fear,
but with a purpose.
Let’s
as Wordsworth said, remove
‘the dust of custom’ so things
shine again, each object arrayed
in its robe of original light.
And then we’ll see the world
as if for the first time,
as once we gazed at the Beloved
who was gazing at us.” 

Takeaway
Sit in stillness with the Holy One.
Place before you something that has meaning for you: a photo, a plant, a pet, a child, whatever it may be.
Simply gaze with deep and unwavering love at what you’ve chosen.
Offer thanks to the object of your gazing and to the Holy One who created it.

Featured Image:  Chris Koellhoffer, “Summer­ Garden”

NOTE:
Since I began writing Mining the Now in 2016, it’s been my custom to take a break from writing my blog and other ministry responsibilities during the month of August. This frees me to spend time in my own retreat and renewal, as well as offering one retreat:

August 8 – 15:
Guided retreat at Villa Maria, Stone Harbor, NJ
Sisters, Servants of the Immaculate Heart of Mary (Immaculata)
I’ll be leading this retreat and ask you to remember all who will be part of it.

Blessings on your days during August. I’ll be back to writing for my blog, Mining the Now, in September. Hope to see you again then!

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by Chris Koellhoffer, IHM    July 15, 2023

Perhaps it’s a shift in emphasis. I know I’m a part of this beautiful yet wounded world. Yet when it comes to a full experience of just what that belonging means, I’m only gradually unpacking a deeper knowing of my membership and asking, what might it mean to belong to this world so loved by the Holy One? What might it mean to be fully at home?

I’ve been away for the past few days. I stayed in a house not far from where I live. What did I do during those days? Stillness and rest. Nothing more than listening to my body. Nothing more than sitting on a porch, gazing out onto the vast expanse of a peaceful lake. Nothing more than looking with delight at two young deer who made a tentative appearance, or being startled by a hungry bass who broke the water. Nothing more than turning my face up to a starlit sky late at night. I banished any agenda, to-do list, or deadline. I welcomed instead the persistent thread of belonging and let it settle and weave itself through my thoughts.

Perhaps at times we need to go away and return home in order to more fully notice the blessings that are all around us at every moment. When I came home and got out of my car in the parking lot, the neighbor’s dog woofed in acknowledgment of my homecoming. As I rounded the corner to my door, the scent of lavender from my tiny garden wafted towards me and I caught sight of a fuzzy bumblebee lounging in a profusion of purple. Buds on the echinacea and black-eyed Susan had slowly unfurled themselves in my absence. I paused, drank in their beauty, and thanked them.

On the patio, the miracle of growing and greening and nourishing lay right in front of me, served with a side of welcome. My container garden promised a salad of romaine and red leaf lettuce, mint, and basil. Since the mint plant is the Mojito variety, a mocktail suggested itself, and who am I to ignore the sage advice of any green neighbor?

When I came inside, my tribe of African violets greeted me with a new display of  purple and white and cream. Two containers of ivy cascaded over the sides of their pots. As a lost spider crawled into view, I scooped him up and carried him to more familiar terrain outside. These sightings reminded me of a Quaker Mealtime Blessing: “Let us give thanks for unknown blessings already on the way.”

This is what kinship is about, I thought. Every day, we are greeted by all our relations, the human, certainly, but also our kin of leaf and petal, of fur, feather, and fin. Sometimes we can be oblivious to their presence and pass them by, but we were never meant to live as strangers from creation, distant from all that the Holy One named as good. We were meant, as Thich Nhat Hanh observes, to awaken from the illusion of our separateness. To live in full communion with creation.

When we cultivate awareness and attention, our worldview grows larger as our focus becomes more intimate, more personal, more connected. We “see the world in a blade of grass. And heaven in a wild flower. Hold infinity in the palm of our hand. And eternity in an hour.” In tending to the smallest and most delicate of our neighbors, we practice loving compassion for the Universe that exists fully in them. In us. We wade into holy Mystery and get a glimpse of just how blessed we and all of creation really are, day after day after day.

Takeaway
Sit in stillness with the Holy One.
Take a few moments to imagine what home is for you.
What creatures inhabit your space and brighten your days?
Offer thanks for their blessed company, and welcome them all into your awareness.

Featured Image: Fern M. Lomibao, Unsplash

NOTE:
Please hold in your prayer my IHM Congregation’s Assembly and Jubilee taking place July 28-30, and also St. Joseph Center’s annual Festival in Scranton the same dates. Rooted in the core values of care, concern, compassion and commitment, Saint Joseph’s humbly serves people who are diagnosed with intellectual disability and those who seek pregnancy support, adoption assistance, outpatient therapy or medical day care services. Thank you!

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Enter your email address in the space provided and then click on “Subscribe” and follow any prompts. You’ll then be subscribed to automatically receive any future blog posts from Mining the Now. 

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by Chris Koellhoffer, IHM    July 1, 2023

Today is June 19, Juneteenth, the day when African Americans in Galveston, TX were told that they were free. We remember, this was almost 2 years after the Emancipation Proclamation. 2 years later! So today is symbolic of the end of 400 years of slavery, and an invitation for all of us to reflect on how near or how far we are from God’s dream of a world where all are welcome and none are excluded.

What St. Paul wrote to the Corinthians (2 Corinthians 6:1-10), he might have been saying to us as we come near the end of this retreat, or really, at any point in our lives: “As we work together with God, we urge you not to receive the grace of God in vain.” All this week, we’ve been praying for grace, haven’t we? So what are the signs that we’ve not received it in vain? Just how do we know if grace is effective?

I’d like to suggest that one of the signs of our cooperation with grace is the size and scope of our worldview. How closely is it aligned with the mind and practice of Jesus, where all are welcome and no one is excluded?  Whom do we always have room for, or whom do we try to keep outside of our circle of belonging? If we made a list, who would be in and who would be out? I suspect those boundaries are a pretty good indication of the width and breadth of our worldview, of how well we look at the world with the eyes of Christ.

The mindfulness teacher Sharon Salzberg (On Being, May 31, 2017) tells a story about worldview, about how we look at the world around us. She says that when she was searching for a cover for one of her early books, her publisher sent her a depiction of a Van Gogh print. In that print, much of the space was taken up by a dull yellow sky. And way down in one corner there were a few crumbling huts. Salzberg looked at it and thought it was a scene of utter devastation. And she said, “This looks like it should be the cover of the Grapes of Wrath or something like that.” Her publisher looked at the same image and said, “This looks like a world that could use some love.”

A world that could use some love. On a global level, the world that could use some love is every place where love has been extinguished. It’s where we hold the tension between the world as it is and the world as it could be, God’s dream of abundant life for all of us.

Closer to home, the world that could use some love might be whatever realities we’re going to meet at the end of this retreat, or at any time in our lives. Our partner, our family, our friends, our community, our co-workers and beyond. In this world, we ask: What is the loving thing to do? How is the loving way to be?

In the Gospel (Matthew 5:38-42), Jesus reminds us to put away our calculators because God does not know to count or keep score. Jesus invites us to grow into this same largeness of heart. To do the counterintuitive and the seemingly impossible thing: “Turn the other cheek. Hand over your coat as well. Go for two miles instead of one. Do not turn your back on borrowers.” Stop counting! Stop keeping score in this world that could use some love.

And here’s the thing about that love: it’s unconditional!  The writer, Jason Garner, asks the big question: “When we look around our world, with wars, terrorist attacks, people killing each other over race, religion, gender, sexual orientation…how can we possibly hold a space for loving everyone? But this is, in fact, exactly why we must.” 

Because “We’re called to practice a love that is more courageous than all the terror we see in our world…so we love one another even when it’s seemingly impossible; we look for the humanity behind the acts of hatred; we find our own pain in the pain of the world; and we meet it all with an intensity of love that is fitting for our intense times.”

May the grace of God which we’ve received not be given in vain. May the graces of this retreat sustain us and inspire us and grow our worldview. May we go forth to be a healing presence in our beautiful yet wounded world, a world that could certainly use some love.  May it be so!

Takeaway
Sit in stillness with the Holy One.
You may wish to place before you a globe or an image of a person or place in our world where it appears that love has been extinguished.
Spend some time breathing healing and compassion into that part of our world.
When you are finished, open your arms wide in welcome.
Bow to the Holy One.

Featured Image: Ben White, Unsplash

NOTE:
As you may have noticed, this blog post is adapted from a homily I offered on June 19 while a guest director at Eastern Point Retreat House in Gloucester, MA. Thank you for your prayer for all who were part of the directed retreat in that beautiful place by the sea.

Thank you also for your prayerful support of our IHM Associates’ Assembly, June 22-24. We’re still basking in the glow of being together.

Happy Canada Day (July 1) to all my dear friends to the North, and happy Independence Day (July 4) to my dear ones in the States. May our lives be given over to the healing of our beautiful yet wounded world.

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Thank you for following!

by Chris Koellhoffer, IHM      June 18, 2023

On the long drive on the way to Eastern Point Retreat House in Gloucester, MA last week, I was savoring the quiet and noticing signs that spoke to me. One touted the construction work in progress along the highway, the result of a bipartisan effort of legislators. Hurray for them, I thought, coming together for the common good. Later, a license plate simply proclaiming, in all caps, “LUKE 6.” The Beatitudes, I presumed. Or perhaps a beloved Luke had turned 6? I began to wonder what Scripture I would put on my license plate if given a choice. Luke 15 (The parables of the lost and found—the wandering sheep, the lost coin, the errant child)? Or Mark 14, the woman who anointed Jesus before his suffering and death? Or? That wondering lingered for many miles.

And then this one, scrawled on the rear windshield of a passing car: “I need a new kidney. Elizabeth.” And a phone number. That one remained with me, settled into my consciousness all through the retreat and my daily intentions at liturgy. “For Elizabeth, waiting in hope for a kidney transplant.” What stage of kidney disease was she in now? How desperate must she be to advertise her deep need on her windshield? Was every passing car a source of hope?

My stream of consciousness reverted to my Dad, who had died nearly forty years ago with kidney failure. Early on, he had obtained a handicap parking placard which he used often as his energy was depleted by treatments. But because he had no visible disability, he noticed that people often gave him disapproving glances as he exited his car, as if he had no right to enter a reserved parking spot. My Dad’s response: he started faking a limp to satisfy everyone.

How little we know of one another or the burdens we carry! How much we rely on appearances as ultimate truth. How often we completely miss the heartache of those closest to us as well as the pain of a suffering world all around us. All of these wonderings stayed with me as I entered into the holy work of companioning others in a directed retreat. I hope these wonderings will remain with me far beyond these days.

As I write this, still in Gloucester, I hear the raucous cry of gulls and the wind whipping a flag. I gaze at a windswept Atlantic and assume a storm is near. I scan the ocean and pray no vacationing boaters will be caught in its fury. I pray that my neighbors of fin and claw who call this body home will live in safety. Here on land, in a place of peace and protection, I pray for Elizabeth, facing the storm and waiting in hope for the gift of life. I pray for you, reading this blog, and all that you carry in your heart, those weights both visible and deeply hidden. And I leave you with this exquisite poem by Rosemary Wahtola Trommer:

Watching My Friend Pretend Her Heart Isn’t Breaking

On Earth, just a teaspoon of neutron star
would weigh six billion tons. Six billion tons.
The equivalent weight of how much railway
it would take to get a third of the way to the sun.
It’s the collective weight of every animal
on earth. Times three.

Six billion tons sounds impossible
until I consider how it is to swallow grief—
just a teaspoon and one might as well have consumed
a neutron star. How dense it is,
how it carries inside it the memory of collapse.
How difficult it is to move then.
How impossible to believe that anything
could lift that weight.

There are many reasons to treat each other
with great tenderness. One is
the sheer miracle that we are here together
on a planet surrounded by dying stars.
One is that we cannot see what
anyone else has swallowed.

Takeaway
Sit in stillness with the Holy One.
Hold in your prayer the critical needs of someone you know who is suffering.
Then expand your circle of prayer to include all those whose physical or emotional pain is unknown to you.
Bless both the known and unknown needs of our world and entrust all to the care of the Holy One.

Featured Image: Milada Vigerova, Unsplash

NOTE:
Happy Father’s Day and blessings to all fathers, guardians, and protectors who nurture the gift of life around them!

Thank you for your continued prayer for all who are part of the guided retreat still going on at Eastern Point Retreat House.

Now may I ask you to pray for all who will be gathering for the IHM Associates’ Assembly, June 23-25, at the IHM Center in Scranton. I’ll be offering a small piece of this time together with our amazing and beloved Associates. Thank you.

To automatically subscribe to receive new posts from Mining the Now: 

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Enter your email address in the space provided and then click on “Subscribe” and follow any prompts. You’ll then be subscribed to automatically receive any future blog posts from Mining the Now. 

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Thank you for following!

by Chris Koellhoffer, IHM    June 4, 2023

In her poem, Hurricane, Mary Oliver wisely observes that, “for some things there are no wrong seasons.” Here in the Northeast, we’ve passed through a soggy early spring with constant showers that offered a wake-up call to buried seeds. So I suppose at this time I should be writing about the wild black raspberry blossoms opening on the vine or the energetic chirping of early rising cardinals and jays. But we find ourselves in a time of relentless dryness where the ground has become like concrete after several weeks without any moisture, a drought compounded by temperatures baking the soil.

What I’m noticing now instead of lush growth is that the leaves of the wild honeysuckle bush have curled up in an effort to conserve water. The delicate petals of the columbine simply let go and tumble to earth ahead of their expected timetable. Boisterous flocks of birds chatter in the morning, yes, but curtail their music and become more muted in the heat of the day. With no soaking rain to coax the robins’ favorite earthworms above ground, the birds’ plumpness has given way to a rather svelte appearance. Amazingly, even the raucous crows quiet themselves and ration their cawing after noon. Clearly, this is not the time for complex murmurations or extravagant blooming. This has turned into a season for conserving, noticing, adapting to the wrinkles in our expectations.

We may sometimes find ourselves in a desert season–the arid times, when God seems silent or pretty close to absent or, as one person described it, “It’s like we’re living in a huge mansion with many rooms; we sense the other is there but we simply don’t bump into each other or catch sight of one another.” The parched times, when any outward sense of growth of the spirit seems to shrivel. The barren times, when prayer feels like an exercise in futility, as if nothing is happening despite our best efforts. The critical times, when faithfulness to spiritual practices becomes especially significant and important. What should we do when our thirty minutes of prayer seem useless, we may wonder? “Pray for sixty minutes instead,” a wise teacher once observed. Yes, those dry times.

So I’ve been reflecting on something Nature already knows: that we are not promised the perfect balance of sun and rain, of unending consolation, of a palpable sense of the Holy One’s presence in our lives. That we are invited to lay aside and surrender expectations of the way things always were or the way we think our spiritual lives ought to be moving forward. That our list of gratitude to all the holy ones who come into our lives should grow by the day as they model for us how to be a loving person in every season, as they teach us that success in the spiritual life resists measurement or calculation, as they help us to embrace a new mode of surrender in seasons both lush and dry. And most of all, that a deep trust is called for: a trust that, no matter what is happening in our lives, there is one season untouched by change. That is the season of being beloved of the Holy One in both the arid and the green, now and forever.

Takeaway
Sit in stillness with the Holy One.
What kind of soul season do you find yourself in right now?
Draw it or describe it.
Spend some time in prayers of gratitude for both the gifts and the challenges of your current season.

Featured Image: Bogomil Mihaylov, Unsplash

NOTE:
Thank you for your prayerful support of the guided retreat I offered for the Sisters of St. Francis at Assisi House, Aston, PA.

June 13-21:
Now may I ask you to remember in prayer safe travel and a directed retreat at Eastern Point Retreat House in Gloucester, MA. I will be one of the guest directors for this retreat. Thank you!

To automatically subscribe to receive new posts from Mining the Now: 

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Enter your email address in the space provided and then click on “Subscribe” and follow any prompts. You’ll then be subscribed to automatically receive any future blog posts from Mining the Now. 

NOTE: If you are trying to subscribe while using a mobile phone, you may have to take another step. As you look at the blog post, there should be 3 horizontal lines at the top right of the page. Click on these lines and you’ll be taken to what’s on the left hand column (on a laptop or PC). Scroll down and follow the directions at * above.

Thank you for following!

by Chris Koellhoffer, IHM   May 21, 2023

Last week, I unexpectedly revisited words I had written in 2005. The words formed the narrative of a once-every-ten-year gathering of the Oblate Sisters of Providence and the three branches of the Sisters, Servants of the Immaculate Heart of Mary: Monroe, Immaculata, and Scranton. My presentation for that gathering focused on how the landscapes of our four congregations have shaped our lives and our collective history.

I wrote: “In the beginning is the landscape, the scene imprinted on our soul, the contours etched in memory. In the landscape of our lives, it is all written: the journey of our ancestors, the struggle to mine clay, rock, sand; to wrestle meaning from all things green and growing; to forge relationships with hill and valley and stream.

There is a part of one’s soul that never forgets the land, that remembers the shape of home and the familiar, that is irrevocably tied to generations past.”

Why did those words resurface some eighteen years later? No mystery there. I was driving to Ocean Grove, NJ, one of New Jersey’s northernmost shore points, to be a guest director for a retreat. As a native of northern New Jersey, my soul has never forgotten the ocean and the beach of my formative years, from Sandy Hook south to Seaside Heights and all the shore points in between, and beyond that to the Barnegat Light and the tiny strip of land we call LBI (Long Beach Island). It all came rushing back: summers spent shelling and chasing waves in a world of play, my soul unconstrained and gloriously alive. That, for me, is the shape and scent of home and the familiar.

Though I’ve lived in landlocked Pennsylvania for the past thirteen years, all it took to transport me away was the whiff of salt air and the cry of gulls. The entire week my bones vibrated with the rhythm of rising and falling tides and basked in the lullaby of softly breaking waves.

No matter how far away we travel, home, I think, in some way remains within us, connects us, makes us feel complete or closer to the fullness of who we are meant to be.  Perhaps for you home holds the majesty of mountains, time given to hiking and exploring. Perhaps Shin-rin yoku, the practice of forest bathing and entering into communion as you breathe in the peace of wooded acres. Perhaps you return home when you’re contemplating with a fishing pole near the stillness of a pond. Or sensing the reassuring weight of unconditional love at your feet as a furry companion joins you on the porch. You may know yourself home when greeted by a riot of sweet faces blooming in your garden. Or when you’re finally surrounded by the welcoming embrace of longed-for family and friends.

Who, what, and where is home for you? Wherever and however that may be, go there often. Go there now, if you can. And if you can’t be there physically, take yourself there in imagination and in remembering. Bask in all that is tender and comforting about home, “God’s World” as imagined by Edna St. Vincent Millay:

O world, I cannot hold thee close enough!
Thy winds, thy wide grey skies!
Thy mists, that roll and rise!
Thy woods, this autumn day, that ache and sag
And all but cry with colour!   That gaunt crag
To crush!   To lift the lean of that black bluff!
World, World, I cannot get thee close enough!

Long have I known a glory in it all,
But never knew I this;
Here such a passion is
As stretcheth me apart,—Lord, I do fear
Thou’st made the world too beautiful this year;
My soul is all but out of me,—let fall
No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call.

Takeaway:
Sit in stillness with the Holy One.
Imagine the dwelling place prepared for you by a loving God.
What does this home feel like? look like?
Savor the blessings of sharing this home with the Holy One, and give thanks.

Featured Image: Devon Daniel, Unsplash

NOTE:
Please hold in your prayer all who will be part of a guided retreat I’ll be leading for the Sisters of St. Francis of Philadelphia at Assisi House in Aston, PA, May 31 – June 3, travel and Guided Retreat.

Thank you for your prayer for all who were part of a directed retreat May 8-15 at the Sisters of St. Joseph Center for Spirituality in Ocean Grove, NJ. My eight days there inspired this blog post.

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by Chris Koellhoffer, IHM   May 7, 2023

Have you noticed how an outer event can invite reflection on inner soul work that might be needed but that we’re not quite ready to embrace and practice? Sometimes we may need to have the message stand right in front of us in our everyday living.

Recently, a new outer door was installed in the house where I live. For some time, the old door had alternated between being so loose that it would fly open even when locked or so tight that I had to throw my entire weight against it just to get out of the house. This quickly moved from being an occasional experience to a continuing source of annoyance. I became irritated at the very door itself, and it took me some time to realize there was an invitation to reflection here.  When the door resisted opening: What was standing in the way of my own opening into being a more loving person? When the door flew open: What healthy boundaries must I have in place for my personal safety and emotional well-being?

I suspect I’m not alone in experiencing an even more universal wrinkle: those moments when technology seems to defy our moving forward as we need to, want to, absolutely must. For more than a few weeks, I was frustrated because of audio problems in the Zoom “Universe.” Without warning, I would suddenly become unable to hear those on the other side of Zoom or they would be unable to hear me, or both. Let’s just say my level of frustration mounted by the day as I researched numerous troubleshooting techniques to restore full sound, without success. During the many weeks before the problem was resolved, I began looking at my laptop with less than a kindly eye. I began blaming the messenger instead of noticing the invitation underneath the message. When I couldn’t hear others: Where did I miss the opportunity to fully listen to wisdom? When others couldn’t hear me: What insights or wonderings or concerns was I holding back on sharing?

In Trust the Process: An Artist’s Guide to Letting Go, Shaun McNiff echoes this practice (or perhaps I’m echoing his?) when he uses the example of a car that’s unreliable or in constant need of repair. He asks, “What lessons can the car offer about life? About how you handle stress? About what you do to yourself when faced with disappointments? Can the disturbing thing be the messenger that suggests another way of living?”

Can the disturbing thing be the messenger? Can the disturbing thing be the messenger that suggests another, more loving response? I’m tickled by how that thought turns frustration on its head. Such a graced line of reflection summons us to live with deeper awareness of the flow of life around us and within us. It underscores the Ignatian practice of finding God in all things, not just the pleasant and joy-filled and welcome parts of life, but also the annoying and disturbing elements. Wisdom tells us that everything can be a messenger, as Jaladdin Rumi reveals in “The Guest House”:

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

May we be faithful to the deep inner soul work of welcoming these guides. May we learn to recognize the messengers who can point us towards new ways of living, being, noticing, paying attention. Yes, may it be so!

Takeaway

Sit in stillness with the Holy One.
Recall a recent experience that surfaced feelings of annoyance, frustration, or disturbance.
What might that experience have revealed to you?
Ask to live with a deepening awareness of life’s unfolding messages.
Thank the Holy One for the gift of being human.

Featured Image:  Lukasz Maznica, Unsplash

NOTE:
May 8 -15:
Please hold in your prayer all who will be part of a directed retreat at the Sisters of St. Joseph Spirituality Center in Ocean Grove, NJ. I will be one of the guest directors for this retreat. Thank you!

May 15: 
Happy Mother’s Day! Blessings to all who partner with the Holy in the welcoming of new life, to all who give their lives over to nurturing, guiding, and protecting life in any way.

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by Chris Koellhoffer, IHM     April 22, 2023

The spring itch for greening was upon me and, even though my days here in “The Yukon” still held the possibility of frost, I simply had to find something leafy to plant. I bought a few lettuce plugs with the intriguing name, “Salad Bowl,” a mix of romaine and red leaf, and set them in their new home in a container on the patio. When I told a friend, I added, “I’m sure they’ll be okay because lettuce really likes the cold.”

With a grin, she asked, “Oh, so has it told you that?”

Why yes, yes it has, I thought. Immediately, I thought of my Dad, deceased almost forty years now. He was probably the first mystic I ever knew, living close to the earth with an eye to the heavens. When I was eight years old and the spring itch for greening was upon me, he carved out a small patch of our back yard for my garden with the caveat, “You can plant anything you want but you have to learn their names and take care of them.” That was enough for me. My choices reflected a whimsical bent, sometimes pumpkins and zinnias, sometimes string beans and marigolds, sometimes jonquil and narcissus and daffodil bulbs that would magically make an appearance next season.

One day I was proudly ticking off the names of all of the plants in my little plot when my Dad observed, “You know they have names for you, too, don’t you?” I was stunned into silence. How could it be that all those tender shoots for whom I lugged the watering can outside, whose every fraction of an inch of growth I crowed over, knew who I was? It’s true we spent an awful lot of time together but I wondered, was there more to this than caretaking? That began my journey into what we now call creation spirituality.

And it is a spirituality, a shift in our place in the Universe, a movement away from attitudes of domination and the thinking that all creation was made simply for our use and consumption. It’s about recognizing, in the face of every violet and dandelion, in the pleading eyes of a beloved furry companion, in the sweet repetitive song of the cardinal, in every wing and fin and cell a profound kinship. A deep knowing that our lives are connected even to the cellular level, that our shared future is bound up together. That we are about more than surviving. That at our core is a longing for thriving together, a yearning for the abundant life the Holy One desires for all creation.

I remember one occasion when I was carrying a heartache so terrible, crushing, and suffocating that I couldn’t find the words to articulate it to anyone. One day I arrived at my sister’s house before she came home and I was greeted by Bobbie, the family’s Golden Retriever. He came and sat at my feet, resting his head on my lap as I pet his soft coat. Suddenly, a torrent of words and tears was liberated in me and I sobbed my story to Bobbie. He simply listened as the sweet and wise spiritual director he was. His presence was my entry point into healing.

How graced we are to live in a Universe where we are comforted and companioned and inspired by the company of all creation! As we celebrate Earth Day, may we resolve to make of every day a celebration of all that God named as good. To greet the fuzzy bumblebee who mines the sweet scent of lavender beside us. To pick up the struggling earthworm on a morning after rain and carry it from the pavement to a grassy area so it won’t shrivel in the afternoon sun. To nuzzle and pet every four legged friend who says hello. To greet with reverence and awe the two legged ones as well. May we befriend them all and love them all and be in relationship with them because, after all, it’s very possible they may know our names as we know theirs. We pray that their names will always be safe and holy in our mouths.

I leave you with Rudy Francisco’s tender poem about how kinship transforms our actions:

“She asks me to kill the spider.
Instead, I get the most
peaceful weapons I can find.

I take a cup and a napkin.
I catch the spider, put it outside
and allow it to walk away.

If I am ever caught in the wrong place
at the wrong time, just being alive
and not bothering anyone,

I hope I am greeted
with the same kind
of mercy.”

Takeaway

Sit in stillness with the Holy One.
You may want to pause and pray outside, or sit near a window with a view of creation, or invite a pet companion to be by your side as you reflect.
If Earth, our Common Home, could speak to you, what might she say?
Listen, and act on what you hear.
Offer profound thanks for your Mother.

Featured Image:  Daniel Öberg, Unsplash

NOTE:
Blessings of Earth Day to you!
May we cherish and reverence the terrible, fragile beauty of this home that holds everything we love, and may we commit our lives to moving our world closer to the fullness of God’s dream for every bit of creation.

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by Chris Koellhoffer, IHM   April 8, 2023

I wonder how many Palm Sundays I’ve heard Matthew’s account of the Passion. I wonder because, listening this past Palm Sunday, I sat up straight when I heard the ending, the final sentence that follows Joseph’s taking the body of Jesus, laying it in his new tomb, rolling a huge stone across the entrance, and then departing.

And then this: “But Mary Magdalene and the other Mary remained sitting there, facing the tomb.”  (Matthew 27:59-61).

How had I never noticed those words? The image of a bereft Mary Magdalene and Mary remaining, just the two of them. Exhausted by the spectacle of crucifixion. Bewildered by the consuming weight of grief. Their posture simply stated: they were keeping vigil, sitting there, facing the tomb.

We don’t know what their thoughts were at that time, but any of us who have sat facing a tomb might offer a guess. Dreams collapsing. A sense of being enveloped not by a loving embrace, but by utter emptiness. A feeling of shouting our despair into surroundings that are suddenly dry, lifeless, and unresponsive. And perhaps worst of all, a sense of being abandoned by the God we counted on, the Holy One who promised victory over death.

Yet we have access to a perspective that Mary Magdalene and Mary did not have at that moment: the rest of the story that we call the Paschal Mystery. The suffering and dying, of Jesus, yes, but also his rising. The continuum of Palm Sunday, Holy Thursday, Good Friday, Easter Sunday.

And let’s not forget Holy Saturday, that liminal, Kairos space, so full of waiting for what might be, hovering somewhere between despair and the audacity of  hope. That’s where I picture the two Marys. Not far from the burial stone. Not looking away. Not averting their eyes. Not putting distance between themselves and Jesus whom they love. Sitting there. Leaning on one another. Holding silence and grief in loving community. Waiting. Remembering.

And in the darkness of Easter’s dawning, making a pilgrimage back to the tomb (Matthew 28:1-10). To an earthquake. To a stone rolled away. To the announcement of an angel whose appearance terrified the guards but resonated with the knowing women. To these women, to the ones who waited and refused to surrender hope, were delivered the words we all long to hear, especially on the Good Fridays and Holy Saturdays of our lives: “Do not be afraid!”

Today, may we hold in tenderness and prayer all those in our world who are at this moment facing the tomb and carrying the oppressive weight of grief. If we are among that number, may the Holy One meet us on the way. May we, like these women who were “fearful yet overjoyed,” live lives that continually announce the good news of Jesus’ rising in our time and place. And no matter how or where we are sitting this Easter, may we recognize the nearness of the Holy this day and always.

Takeaway

Sit in silence with the Holy One.
Imagine yourself seated with the two Marys outside the tomb.
Listen to their story and share with them your own heartache and loss.
Share also your container of hope and hold onto theirs.
Let the Holy One Easter in you.

Featured Image:  BBC Creative, Unsplash

NOTE:
Blessings of Easter, Passover, and Ramadan!

For many years, my Good Friday practice was participation in the Pax Christi Good Friday Way of the Cross in Manhattan. Since I moved from New York, my practice has become a prayerful viewing of the film, “Of Gods and Men.” It’s the true story of the Cistercian monks of Algeria, a peaceful and loving presence among the Muslim people. At a time of deepening strife, the monks struggled to discern whether to move to a place of safety or to remain with their neighbors. Ultimately, they gave their lives over in love and surrender as Jesus did.

Please remember in your prayer my Sister, Elizabeth DeMerchant, and my IHM Congregation as we celebrate Elizabeth’s final profession of vows on April 15. May the Holy One continue to Easter in her and in our beautiful yet wounded world! 

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