Author: Chris Koellhoffer, IHM

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.

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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!

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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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by Chris Koellhoffer, IHM    March 26, 2023

Thirteen years ago, I moved from the Metro New York area, where I had lived and worked for over twenty-five years, to Northeast PA. During those twenty-five years, thanks to the kindness of friends and strangers, I learned my way around Manhattan, Queens, and Long Island by subway, train, and car. I could identify the skyscrapers jutting above the Manhattan skyline and felt confident in navigating that large geographic spread.

In my move to NEPA, I expected to experience culture shock (I did). A sense of being uprooted (I did). What I didn’t expect was to discover how keenly I felt that I was “not in Kansas any more, Toto.”All my hard-earned New York commuting skills didn’t easily transfer to my new landscape, and I was once more a stranger in a foreign land. Sometimes, long-time residents of the area referenced landmarks that no longer existed like, “Go to where the old St. Mary’s Church used to be” or “Turn left at the former Dairy Queen.” Until I bought a GPS, my first few years involved frequent experiences of being lost. Fortunately, I also encountered once again the neighborliness and kindness of strangers when I had taken a wrong turn and lost any sense of direction.

Recently, I attended a session led by the luminous Naomi Shihab Nye that reminded me of these experiences. She read aloud some of her exquisite poetry, including the well-known “Kindness.” She said that she was only the secretary of this particular poem, that it nearly wrote itself. She was on her honeymoon in Colombia when she and her new husband were robbed and left with nothing. Alone, far from home in a foreign land, she was certain it was only the kindness of strangers that saved her. She wrote,

“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.”

What welcome gifts kindness and hospitality are to any of us who experience life’s swiftly changing landscapes: a sudden and unexpected relocation; the letting go of a cherished home or place or people; the termination of employment; the unwanted journey from full health to diminishment of any kind; the empty ache of a severed relationship; the sense of God’s seeming absence in prayer; the weight of a terrible grief we have swallowed.  We may feel that we have taken a wrong turn that carried us into alien territory. We may intuit that we’ve arrived in a desolate landscape where the old maps and landmarks no longer apply. We may realize

“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.”

Whenever we experience the depths of lost-ness and we feel ourselves utterly bereft, may we know ourselves companioned by our loving God in whom “lost” always moves towards “found.” And with the grace of the Holy One, may we be agents of healing, offering kindness and spaciousness of heart to all those we encounter, today and always.

Takeaway

Sit in silence with the Holy One.
Reflect on an experience you have had of finding yourself in the desolate landscape “between the regions of kindness.”
Name how that felt for you.
Remember those who showed you compassion, or welcome, or spaciousness of heart.
Say their names aloud and hold them in tenderness and prayer with deep gratitude.

Featured Image:  Aron Visuals, Unsplash

NOTE:
Blessings of Holy Week, Passover, and Easter! May you and our world experience the fullness of hope and the new life that ushers in this season.

I’m grateful for all the ways you continue to follow and comment on Mining the Now and to support my Mobile Spirituality Ministry. Thank you!

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by Chris Koellhoffer, IHM    March 12, 2023

No worries, she was never truly lost, just left behind. I was sitting in my car after leading a Lenten retreat day in Ocean Grove, NJ, calling my sister to let her know when I would arrive at her house. Just then, Jean, one of the volunteers who helped with the virtual aspects of the retreat, came running out of the house, waving a book. Apparently, after I read Oliver’s “Rice” during the retreat, I put the book to the side and missed it when I was packing up. When Jean returned the book to me (thank you, Jean!), I remember thinking, “I didn’t even know Mary was lost, but I’m so grateful she has been found.”

If I had lost my 1992 copy of New and Selected Poems by Mary Oliver, I could easily have bought another. But with that new copy, I would have lost all the words and images highlighted, all the notes scribbled on dog-eared pages, all the remembrances of where I was and how I was and why that particular phrase grabbed my soul. I would have lost a bit of the story of who I was becoming.

For you see, over the years poets became some of my dearest and most intimate friends. We met each other thanks to my teachers and my parents who had a love affair with words. Poets sat with me in the company of apple trees in our yard, whispered to me under the covers at night as my flashlight illuminated new worlds, consoled and comforted me on my worst days, emboldened me to believe that I, too, carried a bit of their magic within me.

Often during retreats, I share poems that resonate with the theme of a day or the reality of a person I’m companioning. Few comments make me happier than hearing, “I was never really into poetry. But these poems touched me. I got them.” Oh, sayer of those words, your life will never be the same! You have tasted and been fed and you will now always be hungry for more. You have discovered words that Mary Oliver describes as “fires for the cold, ropes let down for the lost, something as necessary as bread in the pockets of the hungry.”

May you also discover, if you haven’t yet met them, some of the cherished friends with whom I’ve sat and conversed: Mary Oliver, Naomi Shihab Nye, Jessica Powers, Rumi, Hafiz, Rainer Maria Rilke, Wendell Berry, Joy Harjo, May Sarton, Denise Levertov, Lynn Ungar, Rosemary Wahtola Trommer, Alison Luterman, Gregory Orr, Jeanne Lohmann, and so many more than this partial listing. Their words are rich, deep, and accessible, and will fill your soul. Feel free to comment and share the names of other friends you’ve met along the way.

I have worn out my copy of Healing the Divide, Poems of Kindness & Connection, edited by James Crews, and Poetry of Presence, An Anthology of Mindfulness Poems, edited by Phyllis Cole-Dai and Ruby B. Wilson. Every morning when I pray, I read aloud one poem from Love Poems from God, Twelve Sacred Voices from the East and West, edited by Daniel Ladinsky.

I hope you will join me in feasting each day on a poem of your choice, reading every word out loud as it was meant to be spoken. Bring your breath and attentiveness to each syllable that the soul of the poet has struggled over. Taste the words. Let them linger on your tongue. Savor their rhythm, their cadence. Notice their fierce strength and their soft sweetness. Devour, devour, devour. And share.

I leave you with “On How to Pick and Eat Poems” by the luminous Phyllis Cole-Dai.

Stop whatever it is you’re doing.
Come down from the attic.
Grab a bucket or basket and head for light.
That’s where the best poems grow, and in the dappled dark.

Go slow. Watch out for thorns and bears.
When you find a good bush, bow
to it, or take off your shoes.

Pluck. This poem. That poem. Any poem.
It should slip off the stem easy, just a little tickle.
No need to sniff first, judge the color, test the firmness—
you can only know it’s ripe if you taste.

So put a poem upon your lips. Chew its pulp.
Let its juice spill over your tongue.
Let your reading of it teach you
what sort of creature you are
and the nature of the ground you walk upon.
Bring your whole life out loud to this one poem.
Eating one poem can save you, if you’re hungry enough.

Take companions poem-picking when you can.
Visit wild and lovely and forgotten places, broken
and hidden and walled up spaces. Reach into brambles,
stain your skin, mash words against your teeth, for love.
And always leave some poems within easy reach for
the next picker, in kinship with the unknown.

If you ever carry away more poems than you need,
Go on home to your kitchen, and make good jam.
Don’t be in a rush, they’re sure to keep.
Some will even taste better with age,
a rich batch of preserves.
Store up jars and jars of jam. Plenty for friends.
Plenty for the long, howling winter. Plenty for strangers.
Plenty for all the bread in this broken world.

Takeaway

Sit in stillness with the Holy One.
You may want to place before you a jar of jam or a piece of bread.
Read Phyllis Cole-Dai’s poem aloud, as you would a prayer.
Feast on her words.
If you wish, taste the jam or slather it on a crust of bread, and eat it slowly.
Offer deep thanks for this poet and for all who offer us “fires for the cold, ropes let down for the lost, something as necessary as bread in the pockets of the hungry.”

Featured Photo: Mario Mendez, Unsplash

NOTE:

Thank you for your prayerful support of all who were part of the Lenten retreat day at the Sisters of St. Joseph Spirituality Center in Ocean Grove, NJ. In many ways, the day was a homecoming of sorts, reuniting me with dear friends from my years of spirituality work, and welcoming new friends into my life. I’m deeply grateful!

On another personal note, I’ve lost track of the number of times a person has asked me, “Do you write poetry?” The short answer is, yes, I do, but I don’t call myself a poet. I simply love words and I care for them. And when I write prose, such as this blog, I’m aware that I write with the ear of a poet, tending to sound and cadence and reading my words out loud before I send them to you. It’s a side effect of a steady diet of poetry since childhood, a practice that helps me to notice and listen to my longing.

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by Chris Koellhoffer, IHM   February 26, 2023

Anyone who knows me would never list “penitential spirit” as one of my striking attributes. Why, then, does Ash Wednesday, the beginning of the Lenten season, evoke such eagerness in me?

The answer is straightforward: because Ash Wednesdays past hold a particular place in my treasured memories. For quite a few years on this very day, I helped to distribute ashes at a parish in Southeast Queens. The first time I did this, I was not prepared for what would happen. Each subsequent Ash Wednesday, I lived in hope that it would be repeated. And I was never disappointed.

Because, you see, on Ash Wednesday I got to peer into the faces of every person who came forward to receive blessed ashes. Whether I recognized the individual or not was of no consequence. On that day, I didn’t need to know names or stories to discover on every upturned face a raw, unfiltered longing laid bare. Faces lined with sorrow, or marked by weariness, or timid or hesitant or hopeful of a new beginning. They all carried that singular emotion: a longing so pure that I wanted to whisper, “How did you come to be this beautiful person?” A longing so unmistakable that I wanted to weep and fall down in worship at the same time.

Because, you see, while I was blessing with ashes whoever stood before me, all the persons in the approaching line were blessing me by their transparent yearning for the Holy. They were offering me a food I hungered for without recognizing the insistent pangs. Something to remember during all the months my prayer felt like nothing but silence and dry dust. Something to nudge me when my shadow resisted being coaxed into the light. Something to cling to and lift me up when discouragement wrapped itself around me like a winter cloak. Something to bolster my insistence that dreams of a more just and tender world were indeed possible.

Ash Wednesday is past, but I invite you to stand with me now and see what I see. Peer into the faces of those Ash Wednesday strangers.

Better yet, stand in front of a mirror and gaze at the image that gazes back at you. Can you find there the face of one who came from dust, stardust, and was dreamed of since the beginning of time? Can you reverence this body imagined as a unique gift to the universe? Can you recognize the face of a creation who is beloved of the Holy One, every second of today and forever? Can you name the deepest desires of your heart?

Takeaway

Sit in stillness with the Holy One.
You may wish to place before you a mirror or a photo of yourself.
Take a long, loving look at the image which gazes back at you.
Allow your longing to surface. Savor it.
Give thanks to the Holy One who longs in you.

Featured Image: KTMD Entertainment, Unsplash

NOTE:
Blessings of this season to you.

May I ask you to hold in your prayer this Lenten event:

March 3-4: Travel and a retreat day I’ll be leading at the Sisters of St. Joseph Spirituality Center in Ocean Grove, NJ. Please remember all who will be part of this day as we remember you and your intentions. Thank you.

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by Chris Koellhoffer, IHM   February 12, 2023

Perhaps you know the feeling. For me, here in the Northern hemisphere in February, it manifests as an overwhelming desire to see something blooming, some living being that’s not merely displaying its greenery, but wildly, extravagantly, colorfully flowering. By now, gone are my fuchsia Christmas cactus, purple or lavender African violets, deep red-and-white-edged-with-pink amaryllis. They delighted me in stages from November up until January’s end. Now they are dormant and resting and empty of buds.

And I get that, I do. As their roommate, and especially as a writer, I understand the utter exhaustion that follows weeks of creative growth and inspiration. But I find that living through flowerless seasons grows increasingly difficult as the outer world lacks living color. I wonder if the inner world is also dormant or if this near constant desire for blooming in February is somehow connected to hope.

When I turn on the news or check my email, the images I see are largely absent anything resembling flowering. My heart aches at the growing count of lives lost in the horrific earthquake that killed thousands in Turkey and Syria, including hundreds of already battered and broken Syrian refugees who saw Turkey as the place that would shelter them from danger. No blooming. My heart aches over the growing divisions in my own country that express themselves in acts of hatred, racism, refusal to accept differences. No blooming. My heart aches over yet another school shooting, snatching tender lives to gun violence. No blooming.

But my times of prayer reveal that I’m overlooking the flowering of the spirit unfolding all around me. The White Hats in Turkey dig with shovels and bare hands in a desperate search for the living buried under rubble, each miraculous find exploding in cheers and hugs. Flowering hope.  Members of Sandy Hook Promise turn the tragic deaths of their little ones and teachers into an urgent advocacy to protect children from gun violence and prevent tragedies. Flowering hope. A stranger with a desire to express peace for Ukraine in an artistic way asks for permission to use the Prayer for Peace I wrote as an accompaniment to bracelets she makes so her creations can inspire others to pray for peace in Ukraine. Flowering hope. The IHM EarthCARE committee meets each month to pray and work to restore our land, cultivating native species of trees and plants that then invite native birds and other inhabitants to again return home to the land we share. Flowering hope. The list is long.

Whether you live in the northern hemisphere where winter has a grip, or you live in the southern hemisphere where a riot of colors is in bloom, today might hold an invitation to explore fresh ways of growing the spirit of compassion and welcome. What flowering do you long for in your life? What is the Holy One coaxing to bloom in you?

Takeaway

Sit in stillness with the Holy One.
Place before you a flowering plant or a photo of one.
Reflect on all the elements (water, sun, etc.) that came together to bring this plant to a time of blooming.
What flowering do you long for in your life?
What might be needed to bring something to bloom in yourself?
What is the Holy One coaxing to blossom in you?
Ask for the fullness of flowering.

Featured Image: Chris Koellhoffer, my last blossoming African Violet

NOTE:
I wish every blessing of love and compassion to you this Valentine’s Day.

May Ash Wednesday hold an invitation to work towards the fullness of blossoming for yourself and for our beautiful yet wounded world.

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