Another dance of contradictions

I’ve been reading—and enjoying—two books that might X each other out. They seem to say two opposite things. The title of David Allen’s book, Getting Things Done: The Art of Stress-Free Productivity, actually embarrasses me. I don’t usually read this kind of book. The other, more my style, is Richard Rohr’s Falling Upward: A Spirituality for the Two Halves of Life. But I am finding value in both books. I love sorting through mixed messages and finding that it’s another both/and situation, rather than either/or. Since I’m having fun, I use the term “dance of contradictions.”

The Getting Things Done book came highly recommended, so I ordered it, thinking, “This might be good for Hal.” I should have learned by now not to think that way. While it might indeed be good for Hal, I’m finding it good for Nancy as well. Basically a system for time and task management, I’m finding Allen’s approach practical and doable, even if I choose to apply only parts of his system. The clutter on my desk top, in my files, and even in my mind is beginning to rearrange itself into orderly patterns. That’s good. Efficiency and productivity are good. North American culture certainly values them.

Actually, I’ve always rebelled at the emphasis on efficiency, although I’m told I’m very efficient myself, a good executive secretary type. The librarian in me smiles at this. But the poet scowls. I really prefer intuition, creativity, freedom. At least most of the time. Some of the time?

Well anyway, the other book appeals to my poetic and mystical self. In Falling Upward, Catholic priest and spirituality guru Richard Rohr claims that adult spiritual development falls into two phases of life (based partly on Jungian psychology). The tasks and values of the first phase include establishing one’s identity, climbing the ladder of success, hard work, productivity, achievement, and getting things done. Rohr sees this as a necessary stage.

In the second stage of spiritual development (which, the author claims, not everyone reaches), the person moves beyond the emphasis on doing to a focus on being. More than productivity, the person is content to live out his or her identity, to simply be the person God created her to be. Gratitude, harmony, relationship, wisdom are all values of this stage of life.

Sounds good. I’ve always been drawn to being above doing, even during my most productive years. At the same time, I’m addicted to lists and love crossing off items as the day moves forward. Getting stuff done feels really good. I’m told schizophrenia runs in the family. Is this evidence?

Probably not. It’s another Mary/Martha story. Mary sits at the feet of Jesus, listening, being, “falling upward,” while Martha fusses and cooks and gets stuff done. Jesus praises Mary’s receptivity and rebukes Martha’s fussy anxiety, but I don’t think he makes this into an either/or choice: be or do. Following the story beyond this incident, we see Martha continuing to fix meals, but with a holy attitude. Apparently we can learn to be and do at the same time.

Are the “real” Quakers the silent, mystical contemplatives or the activists for mission and social justice? Or both at once? Or something beyond the stereotypes?

Even the word “poet” is helpful to me at this point. It comes from the Greek verb “poiew” which means “to make” or “to do.” I’ve always wondered how “poetry” came from this linguistic root, other than the fact that poets make poems. It’s an active, doing (literally) verb, and poetry has always fallen to me on the being side of the continuum. But, there you have it.

So I guess I can still be a poet and have my daily to-do list at the same time. I’d reflect further on this fascinating subject, but I need to draw this to a close. I’ve got way too much stuff to get done today.

Aaron's clothes

Robinson Jeffers has two wonderful concluding lines to his poem, “To the Stone-Cutters.” He writes that in spite of the ravages of time, “Yet stones have stood for a thousand years, and pained thoughts found/The honey of peace in old poems.” 

For the past month I’ve been savoring the honey of peace in an old poem by George Herbert (1593-1633). The poem is entitled simply, “Aaron.” Brother of Moses and first High Priest to the Hebrew nation, Aaron was required to don elaborate ceremonial robes before he could minister to the people. (You can read the details in Exodus 28.) This poem about Aaron’s priestly clothes points to our only source of adequacy in ministry and gives me hope. I need this reminder often.

AARON

Holiness on the head,
Light and perfections on the breast,
Harmonious bells below raising the dead
To lead them unto life and rest:
Thus are true Aarons dressed.

Profaneness in my head,
Defects and darkness in my breast,
A noise of passions ringing me for dead
Unto a place where is no rest:
Poor priest thus am I dressed.

Only another head
I have, another heart and breast,
Another music, making live, not dead,
Without whom I could have no rest:
In Him I am well dressed.

Christ is my only head,
My alone and only heart and breast,
My only music, striking me e'en dead,
That to the old man I may rest
And be in Him new dressed.

So holy in my head,
Perfect and light in my dear breast,
My doctrine tuned to Christ (who is not dead,
But lives in me while I do rest),
Come, people; Aaron's dressed.

The slug and I

It’s not that I like slugs. I don’t. I find them repulsive in their sluggish sliminess. But I have a certain narrative relationship with this ugly but innocent beast. Slugs are part of my story.

It started when my kids were little. Out of pure whimsy, I began slipping slugs into the story books I read and re-read to them. Only now and then, in odd places, without skipping a beat, I would read, “As the prince slipped the glass slug on Cinderella’s foot….”  And Kristin would giggle and say, “Mom, it’s a slipper, not a slug!”

Interestingly enough, when I try it on my grandkids, it doesn’t work. Instead of amusement, they get mad, as in, “Come on, Grandma! Read it right!” So much for whimsy.

And then there was the time when David, on some Boy Scout hike, took on a dare to kiss a slug. Later he told me it was a scientific experiment, to see if kissing a slug really does make your lips go numb. It does.

The next time slugs enter my story, I’m in graduate school. To help support my addiction to education, I worked as research librarian in the same school. As such I was in charge of making sure all theses and dissertations passed the muster in regards to margins, headings, grammar and references. As if that were not fun enough, I also got to edit the school’s style manual.

To be perfectly honest (which I try to be), academic style manuals are not my favorite literary genre. And the manual I inherited needed extensive editing.

Again, my sense of whimsy clicked in. Partly in order not to go crazy with academic jargon and stylistic rules, I began subtly inserting slugs into the text. As long as it didn’t interfere with the manual’s purpose to give clear formatting instructions, I figured my slugs did no harm. They certainly made my work more fun. I’m sure my co-workers in the office occasionally wondered why I was at my desk giggling.

I inserted most of my slugs into the examples, not the actual instructions. “References Cited” provided rich opportunities. The school used the reference system of the American Association of Anthropology, and I selected my examples from various journals. Slipping a slug into a title was easy.  Samples:

Rumekkiart, David E., and James L. M. McClelland. 1986. Parallel Distributed Processing: Explorations in the Microstructure of Cognition among Slugs. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.

Rogers. E. 1963. The Hunting Group: Hunting Territory Complex among Mistassini Slugs. Bulletin No. 195, Anthropological Series No. 63. Ottawa: National Museums of Canada.

Legge, Anthony J. and Peter A. Rowley-Conwy. 1987. “Slug Killing in Stone Age Syria.” Scientific American 257:88-95.

Fawcett, William B., Jr. and Alan C. Swedlund. 1984. “Thinning Populations and Population Thinners: The Historical Demography of Native American Slugs.” Review of Their Number Become Thinned, by Henry F. Dobyns. In Anthropology 11:264-269.

In the capitalization guide to theological terms, the “S” list contained the following words:

Satan

Savior

scriptural

Scripture

serpent, the

slug, the

Son of God

Spirit, the

(Although slugs deserve respect, you don’t have to capitalize them.) I found many other hiding places for my slugs.

For several weeks after the revised edition of the style manual was published, I held my breath, wondering if the Dean would call me into his office and fire me. Now, some years later, I admit to being disappointed that no one has ever mentioned it. But, after all, who reads all the examples in style manuals? Not me.

Currently Hal and I are in the middle of a new slug adventure. And this one is alive.

It’s called kombucha tea, and the recipe asks for tea, sugar, water and a SCOBY. That stands for “Symbiotic Culture of Bacteria and Yeast.” We call it simply The Slug (upper case letters required). It floats in a gallon jug of tea, in a dark corner of our laundry room. And there in the darkness, it quietly procreates. Every few days I siphon off a quart of the fermented kombucha tea, replenishing the brew with fresh sugared tea. Then Hal and I actually drink the stuff.

For our health, of course. Our daughter-in-law, Debby, first got us on to this. (Our grandkids refer to their SCOBY as The Octopus.) The use of kombucha tea has been traced to ancient cultures in both China and Russia, and its health claims make it worth trying out. It tastes just strange enough that you know it’s got to be good for you. Adding apple juice helps.

There you have it. My life with the slug. What will the next chapter bring?

Three streams and a place of peace

At this moment I find myself at the confluence of three streams, and the waters toss and tumble as they meet and widen into a river. The Yearly Meeting of Northwest Friends has just ended on a high note with the confirmation of Becky Ankeny (Hal’s cousin) as the new superintendent. An excellent choice. Hal and I presented two workshops, met with the mission board and spoke at the women’s and men’s banquets. God was gracious and once again these two introverted servants made it through their public responsibilities alive and well.

At the same time, we are in the midst of helping our children and their children prepare for their return to Rwanda. So, concurrent with yearly meeting, it’s been a week of sorting, cleaning, packing, running errands, and much prayer for peace and grace. An undercurrent of grief runs through it all. Four years of separation is a long time.

The third stream that chatters and bubbles in the background is preparation for my trip to Costa Rica on Monday and four intense days of curriculum revision for PRODOLA.

Part of my spiritual discipline recently, and a way to keep my spirit centered in grace and peace, is memorization (in some cases, re-memorization) of favorite poems. I’ve printed each poem on a 6 x 4 card and play with it as we take our early morning walk (another spiritual discipline). This one by Wendell Berry keeps me centered in grace, even when I can’t get out into the nature he writes about. It helps the streams inside me gather into a place of still water.

The Peace of Wild Things
by Wendell Berry

 When despair for the world grows in me

and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
or grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

I see you

Recently I discovered a short poem by W.S. Merwin called “Sight.” I’ve been memorizing it on my morning walks. It goes like this:

SIGHT

Once
a single cell
found that it was full of light
and for the first time there was seeing

when
I was a bird
I could see where the stars had turned
and I set out on my journey

high
in the head of a mountain goat
I could see across a valley
under the shining trees something moving

deep
in the green sea
I saw two sides of the water
and swam between them

I
look at you
in the first light of the morning
for as long as I can

The last stanza, “I look at you in the first light of the morning for as long as I can,” touches an inner chord. I now find myself repeating it in my early morning prayers, accompanied by a stab of joy I can’t explain.

About the same time, a Brazilian friend sent me a YouTube song in Portuguese, saying it reminded him of me. Since it’s a beautiful song, that makes me feel really good. The chorus repeats variations on the phrase, “I can’t stop looking at you.” Again, I have been singing this phrase as prayer to Jesus throughout the day. (Go to the link at the end of this blog.)

Last week Hal and I watched the movie, “Avatar.” I had wanted to see this film for a long time and, while our TV set doesn’t do 3D, I was not disappointed. I loved the geography and culture depicted on the moon Pandora, as well as the story of supposed enemies becoming friends. I was a bit discouraged when what at first appeared to be an anti-war message turned out to illustrate a just-war position.

But all that aside, I was especially taken by the way “people” on Pandora express love. Instead of “I love you,” they say to each other, “I see you.” Of course that phrase means more than, “I acknowledge your physical presence.”

Now and again, throughout the day, when I breathe the prayer, “I see you” to Jesus, I sense him whispering back to me, “I see you.” This exchange of love expresses both present reality and longing for more.

All three phrases say the same thing, and all three come from secular culture as expressions of human (or Pandoran) love. Yet they have turned into prayer for me.

I love it when this kind of convergence happens. It affirms the Spirit’s leading.

I am currently reading Everything Belongs: The Gift of Contemplative Prayer by Richard Rohr (another convergence), and he makes the point that “true seeing is the heart of spirituality today.” “Prayer is not primarily saying words or thinking thoughts. It is, rather, a stance. It’s a way of living in the Presence, living in awareness of the Presence, and even of enjoying the Presence.”

I feel the Spirit lifting me to a new plane of prayer, where instead of words, I simply gaze. Sometimes the Presence is so close, sight fades. Other times, like the mountain goat, I look across a valley and see “under the shining trees something moving.”

I stand still and watch.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=SUCDyTZsbuE

Wimpy, Grandpa Clyde and our African heritage

This last weekend 34 members of the (much larger) extended Thomas clan gathered at my daughter Kristin’s home. Four generations were represented, the oldest being Hal’s parents, now in their 90s. Each family unit set up its tent on the lawn and was in charge of one meal. The outdoor porta-potty helped with other logistical matters.

We had invited Larry and Dee Choate to be with us for the weekend, to tell us stories about our African heritage. Larry grew up in Burundi during the colonial era; his parents, Ralph and Esther Chilson Choate, were Friends missionaries. Esther’s parents, Arthur and Edna Chilson founded the Quaker work in Kenya and Burundi back in the early 1900s. So Larry, a Quaker MK (ie, “missionary kid”) intimately knew Hal’s grandparents, Clyde and Mary Thomas, and his uncle and aunt, George and Dorothy Thomas, also Friends missionaries in Burundi. We simply wanted him to share his memories.

And he did. On Saturday afternoon we gathered the clan in Jon and Kristin’s spacious living room and listened for several hours as Larry told stories. But let me back up a little. Grandpa and Grandma Thomas (great-great grandparents to the youngest among us) raised their five kids here in Oregon, waiting until the kids were all married and more or less settled before beginning their missionary career in Africa, thus fulfilling a life time dream. Hal remembers them well and also remembers his sense of the unfairness of it all—his grandpa and grandma leaving him. He must have been around four years old, but the feelings were strong.

Hal’s loss was Larry’s gain. With his own parents totally involved in their mission work, Larry needed live-in grandparents, and Grandpa Clyde and Grandma Mary carried it off with flare, met his need for attention and hands-on love, as well as the occasional disciplinary thump on the back of the head. Grandma Mary (Aunt Mary to the MKs) taught in the compound grade school, while Grandpa Clyde worked in carpentry and construction projects, always taking time to train his young disciples, which included Larry.

The Wimpy stories were among our favorites. Grandpa Clyde bought (“adopted” would be a more accurate term) a chimpanzee on a trip to the Congo, brought it home and raised it. Larry reports that Wimpy was more like a son than a pet, showing very human characteristics. He was affectionate, intelligent, and extremely mischievous. His room was the top of a tree in the yard, and he always stuck his head in a gunny sack (his “blankie”) when he went to sleep or after he had broken some rule and knew he was in deep trouble. Grandpa disciplined him regularly, and Wimpy always responded with great relief.

Wimpy would occasionally hide along the path outside the compound and jump out to scare people. In a better mood, he would simply approach all passersby, his hand stretched out for a shake. Those who knew him would give him a hand; others just got spooked and hurried down the path, much to Wimpy’s amusement. Larry reported that Wimpy loved to ride on the back of Larry’s motorcycle, his head out to catch the wind. When Larry would turn to glance at him, he always saw Wimpy’s big monkey lips flapping in the wind. It inevitably made him laugh.

What Larry remembers most about Grandpa Clyde was his joy. Grandpa smiled with his whole face, eyes sparkling. And he smiled often. He also remembers his long sermons, delivered at high velocity, but full of biblical truth and wisdom. He remembers Grandma Mary mothering him, understanding his particular pain as an MK.

Larry’s memories of Uncle George and Aunt Dorothy are also strong. He reported that George loved to hunt and was skillful, keeping the missionary community supplied with good meat. But at one point, George sensed God speaking to him, telling him that He had not sent him to Africa to hunt, but to be a missionary. George felt God asking him to give up hunting, and Larry remembers well the disappointment of the missionary community on hearing this. Thus followed four years without good meat (from the viewpoint of the other staff), at which time George sensed God lifting the hunting ban, and he began again to hunt game, although with more moderation. What impressed Larry as a young boy were Uncle George’s integrity and obedience, an example he’s never forgotten.

We ended our story-telling session (although it continued informally the rest of the weekend) by praying for Larry and Dee, then asking them to pray for us. We have a strengthened sense of our identity as a family, and a realization of how important these stories are. We also realize that this clan has gathered in many non-Thomas born “outsiders,” such as myself, people who have married into the family, and that we all bring our own stories. These, in turn, become part of the overall family narrative. In future gatherings, we want to give time to listening to more of these stories.

We’re a people on a journey, following our Lord, knowing that what we all contribute makes the whole story more interesting, more complex, more beautiful. It’s been good to listen to some of the African segments of our story. Where is this all taking us? I can’t wait for the next chapter.

Sleeping facilities

 Hal and his parents lead the singing

 Larry Choate telling stories

This is great stuff.

Different generations join in.

Simplicity of heart

As anyone who has attempted to de-clutter their life knows, simplicity can be complicated. It involves tackling not only the accumulation of stuff—those bins of college syllabi, old magazines, childhood treasures—but extra tasks we’ve taken on, organizations we’ve joined, the demands other people make on us, and all the clutter in our minds.

Recently as I was walking the labyrinth our Friends meeting has constructed in an adjacent field, I found myself repeating a simple prayer: “You are my life. You are my life.” It was as though God was reeling me in, bringing me back to the basic simplicity of soul from which all else flows. I found myself asking, with the psalmist, “Whom have I in heaven but you? And earth has nothing I desire beside you” (Psalm 73).

I felt God reminding me that simplicity begins in the heart. It flows from a life oriented to the source of all life, from the deep knowledge that in God alone we “live and move and have our being.” That’s basic to Christianity, yet somehow I keep forgetting.

As I walked that trail, I began to affirm, “Above all relationships and roles—spouse, parent, grandparent, friend, minister—you are my life. Above all I possess or hold on to for security—my home, my books, my insurance policies, my investments—you are my life. Above all the intangibles I cling to—my health, my education, my achievements, my talents, my rights, my dreams—above all this, you are my life.” And I found myself praying, “Oh Lord, let it be. Change my heart. Keep reeling me into yourself.”

I am sensing that only when I live from the center of a life oriented to God can I move out freely into the world as God’s agent of reconciliation and peace.

When will I start remembering this so much that I live by it? When will this attitude become a holy habit?

Prayer: “Take from our souls the strain and stress, and let our ordered lives confess the beauty of thy peace” (John Greenleaf Whittier).