Yesterday I read this passage from Christine Paintner's THE SOUL'S SLOW RIPENING, which mines the meaning of my word-for-2024: WALK.
"'Wanderer, there is no road. The way is made by walking,' The Christian scriptures speak of a "way," but it is not the path of our expectations. It is not the ten-step plan for inner peace. Instead, this way calls us to deeper and more radical trust to realize that the way is made by walking." -- Paintner
Like many of us, I can get knotted up in the past, or convinced that just a little more effort will lead to the proverbial greener grass of some imagined future. But life is a pilgrimage of small discernments and everyday graces. I used to love writing novels (who knows, maybe I will again one day :) ), and there's always that moment about 2/3 of the way through a draft when you think "Holy crap, what have I been doing? What was I thinking?" And any experienced writer knows..... you just keep writing. So it is with our dreams when life seems to press in from all sides.
There is always some small shift to bring us closer to our dreams, no matter how fixed the everydayness can feel. I love Julia Cameron's THE ARTIST'S WAY, because she invites readers to brighten up one corner of a room, or install that birdfeeder, or whatever it is that enchants your living space just a bit. If you want to hang a string of fairy lights in your meditation corner -- do it!
So today, just for the heck of it, change one little thing -- just because it makes you happy. Take a step in the direction of something new. Enchant your own life. Trust in process, not product. Trust that one day you will be amazed at how far you've travelled. And in the meantime, you might also embrace this stretch of road. — Alison Umminger Mattison
A Meditation on The Gifts of the Spirit
Gathering the Harvest
My husband and I have a large vegetable garden. It is a lot of work – tilling, planting, weeding, and harvesting and then preserving the harvest. We freeze beans and peas and corn and peppers. We store potatoes and onions and carrots in a cool dark place, and we can tomatoes and salsa. It is a labor of love that we share with our friends and family. All the excess goes to the local food pantry.
One of my teachers, Jim Finley, likes to say that “our job is to assume the position that offers the least resistance to God’s grace.” For me, that is being outside in nature. I spent the summer noticing God’s presence in the crazy call of the sandhill cranes flying over the garden. God was present in the amazing salamander I found while pulling weeds. God was present when I was sitting on the deck with my husband shucking peas and snapping beans. God was present when I was husking corn with my grandkids. God was present when my grandson presented me with a bucket full of black raspberries and asked me to make a pie. All these memories I have savored and stored. I know that soon the days will be short, and the snow will be here. It will be many months before the days are noticeably longer, so I am grateful for this summer and the harvest. In the middle of winter, I want to open a jar of tomatoes or pull a bag of peas from the freezer and remember the beautiful day in summer when they were picked. I want to remember the moment – the sun shining, working next to my husband, watching the hummingbirds, listening to the cranes. God with us.
All or this makes me think of Ignatius. He tells us to savor the times of consolation, to record them and come back to them again and again. I am storing up these memories and writing them down - savoring this day, this moment - knowing God is present. I trust that these moments and memories will be a balm during the desolate times. May it be so.