Art: Awakening Us to Everyday Wonders

Art: Awakening Us to Everyday Wonders

Large, ornate gold and white clock in Musee d'Orsay Paris France

Photo: Mary van Balen

Kathryn and I successfully navigated the Metro this morning and made our way to the Musée d’Orsay. Originally it was a railway station that included a hotel and reception room, but as train transportation changed, the station was gradually abandoned. In 1977 the French government decided to transform the buildings into a museum, and by 1986 it was opened to the public. With huge clocks and vaulted ceilings, the building itself is breathtaking. And then, of course, there is the magnificent  collection it holds.

Once there, we quickly made our way up to the 5th floor that houses works by the Impressionists. I immediately recognized some of the paintings, and my eyes filled with tears. Monet, Manet, Renoir, Degas, Cézanne, Pissaro, Sisley… The emotional connection was immediate.

Series of five paintings of the Cathedral of Rouen each done at a different time of day by Claude Monet.

Series La Cathedrale de Rouen Claude Monet Photo: Mary van Balen

Standing in front of Monet’s series of paintings of the Cathedral of Rouen, I imagined the man, coming to the church day after day, at different times, to capture the light. What sight he had. I was reminded of a conversation with artist Marvin Triguba, years ago:

“Marvin,” I asked, “how do you paint the light that makes everything so alive, so real?” “It’s how I see,” he answered. “I see everything like that. Doesn’t everyone see that way?”

The paintings draw crowds of people from around the world. Some stand and gaze for a long while. Others take quick photos and move on. All, for a moment, experience the world through the artist’s eyes and heart.

L'Englise d'Auvers-sur-Oise van Gogh Photo; Mary van Balen

L’Englise d’Auvers-sur-Oise van Gogh
Photo; Mary van Balen

As I walked through the rooms there and in the Neo-Impressionism wing, I wondered at the subject matter—so ordinary and yet, as the artist reveals, extraordinarily beautiful and transcendent. There was one of snow on Paris rooftops, a yard full of white turkeys, a haystack, a vase of flowers, a picnic, a train station, a woman with a parasol, a table set for tea. Someone hurrying down a lane past a church, and a starry night.

 

close up photo of cut up kiwi and nectarine in white bowl

Photo: Mary van Balen

 

Everyday sights. I thought about the kiwi and nectarines Kathryn cut up and placed in a white bowl for breakfast this morning. Baguette broken and buttered. Grey clouds threatening rain hanging over the the city.

View of Sacré-Cœur from Musée d’Orsay

View of Sacré-Cœur from Musée d’Orsay

 

 

 

 

 

 

The couple van Gogh painted walking beneath the dark blue sky studded with brilliant stars, did they notice what glory hung above their heads? Did the woman hurrying around the cathedral notice the sunlight on the roof or the grass along the road?

 

Starry Night Over the Rhone by Vincent van Gogh Photo: Mary van Balen

Starry Night Over the Rhone by Vincent van Gogh
Photo: Mary van Balen

If, as Emily in “Our Town” did when she returned to relive one day, we appreciated the beauty of life at every moment, how could we do anything but appreciate? How could we do anything other than respond as our gifts dictated: paint, dance, write, draw, play music, pray? Or, simply stand still and open every pore to the Grace that constantly overflows around us, in us, and through us?

The painting "Roses and Anemones" by Vincent van Gogh

Roses and Anemones by Vincent van Gogh
Photo: Mary van Balen

 

Today, I gave thanks for artists who have reminded us of the Sacred present in our midst. Thanks for those who recognize the value of their work, collect it, preserve it, and make places where we can come to see and be reminded that we move through wonder every day.

Bonjour!

Bonjour!

Poppies along path Jardin de Plantes, Paris

Photo: Mary van Balen

Cool air slides into the apartment through open windows. No screens gray the view of a Parisian morning. Bird song, motorcycle growls, and car hums signal the city is stretching and meeting the new day. It’s Saturday, my first here, and I don’t know just how busy the morning will be. I’m enjoying tea and baguette smeared with a bit of jam. A bright bouquet of flowers, a gift from my daughter, sits on the table where I write. Another daughter just left, on her way to the Jardin de Plantes to paint.

To paint! We are both enjoying the biggest gift of this adventure: time. Time to savor the morning breeze and the sweet taste of breakfast. Time to walk slowly through huge public gardens, watching poppies nod and dance as people strolled by.

young woman sitting on bench painting in Jardin de Luxembourg

Photo: Mary van Balen

“What do these people do?” I asked my daughter yesterday as we carried our chairs to a shady place in the huge public garden. So many adults filled the park on a Friday afternoon. What about their jobs? Do they take long lunches? Not all of them could be tourists.

We settled in. Kathryn pulled a pencil, paints, a tablet, a collapsable water pot, brushes, and a bottle of water from her Longchamp bag. I pulled a journal, pencil, eraser, and pen from mine. (Thank goodness for Longchamp bags. They not only help us blend in a bit since so many women carry them here, but they hold everything!)

Pink tree in the midst of green trees and grass in Jardin de Luxemburg, Paris

Photo: Mary van Balen

A bright pink tree rose flamboyantly in the midst of green and caught our attention. My daughter began to sketch out her composition. For a while, I sat and took in the sight of the pink flame, wondering what kind of tree it was and how it came to be there. Deep breaths. In and out. No hurry. Time to savor beauty and to be present to the Holy Mystery that held us all there.

After writing  a bit in my journal and making a sketch of the tree, I took some close photos of its leaves thinking I might discover its name one day. Lots of people stopped to look and take photos of the tree that was simply being its beautiful self. Perhaps it would not have been as striking if the chestnuts and grass had not provided such cool, green contrast.

A line from Thomas Merton came to mind. I couldn’t remember it verbatim, but the thought was about how naturally trees were able to be just what they were made to be, yet how we human beings struggle to do the same. Those trees in the park were saying “yes” to their Creator, catching sunlight on their green (or pink) leaves and stunning all who saw with the beauty of pure being.

My daughter and I, witness to the glory, were relearning the grace of simply being who we are.

 

Transphobia: Jesus Weeps

Transphobia: Jesus Weeps

Weeping Jesus statue close up

Photo by James McGinnis

Watching a video of Ted Cruz flaunting his ignorance and making a crude joke about Donald Trump dressing up as Hillary Clinton and still not being able to use the girl’s bathroom made me sick. It brought tears to my eyes as his audience laughed. Last week he released a transphobic add portraying transgender women as predators, men pretending to be women.

Article after article. Statement after statement. Law after law. Transgender people are singled out as a danger in public restrooms without any evidence. Is the timing—during a presidential election year—a coincidence?  I doubt it.

Some bright spots appear in this darkness. Entertainers and businesses are pulling out of states that pass discriminatory “bathroom bills.” On it’s website, Target takes the lead and declares that in keeping with it’s core value of inclusivity, transgender employees and guests are welcomed to use “the restroom or fitting room facility that corresponds with their gender identity.” Episcopal and Methodist bishops of North Carolina are demanding the repeal of HB2. Some business leaders and government officials are speaking out against these laws.

That this fear-mongering bigotry is often expressed under the guise of religious freedom makes it all the more tragic. Jesus weeps. So do I.

This Business of Being

This Business of Being

yellow wild flowers and a rock near bay on Whidbey Island

PHOTO: Mary van Balen Whidbey Island

Originally published in The Catholic Times

A few weeks ago in Barnes & Noble, while browsing through the bookstore looking for an old book they didn’t have, I wandered into the poetry section and picked up a slim, hardback volume with “Felicity” and “Mary Oliver” writ large in white across the soft gray sky on the cover.

I stood and read a poem about St. Augustine. “Take heart,” it said to me. Augustine didn’t become himself overnight. There was one about a cricket, finding its way into a house in the fall.

I’ve been on a Mary Oliver jag ever since, pulling out books I already own, ordering Felicity and the second volume of “New and Selected Poems.” She’s a master of attention and mindful living. Her poems are prayer, savoring the Sacred in our midst, perhaps in an armful of peonies or a heron’s flight. “I want to make poems while thinking of/the bread of heaven and the/cup of astonishment… (from “Everything” in New and Selected Poems – Volume Two).

There is something about the grace of her poetry that anchors me when reports of violence, hatred, and fear threaten to overwhelm. The news we hear most often is bad, and while my daughter assures me that we live in a world with less, not more, violence than in centuries past (We just hear about more of it, she says), some days this planet seems a dangerous place careening towards disaster.

Yet, in this same time and place there is hope. There is goodness and love that refuse to give in to despair. There is mercy and forgiveness. There are people who, little by little, replace darkness with light by simply living as best they can, showing kindness and compassion along the way. They speak the truth they know and go about the ordinary tasks of life. There is Spirit, shared with each of us, who draws us to goodness if we allow, and empower us to make life’s journey as partners with the One who is transforming the world.

Poets express in words (and the spaces between them) something of this mystery and their experience of it, inviting readers to participate. I suppose, now and again, a line or two, or even a complete poem moves quickly and effortlessly from heart to word, but that is a rare mercy—the inbreaking of Spirit to a practiced soul, aware and open to such things.

Poets I’ve known and my attempts at writing verse, have taught me that writing poetry is work. Ted Kooser, U.S. poet laureate 2004-06, once surprised my adult GED students by sharing his writerly routine (up early every morning for fifty years, writing an hour and a half before leaving the house) and the revelation that he had revised one of their favorite, very short poems 50 times.

The same daughter who assures me the human condition is actually improving can’t imagine why anyone would want to write—for her, it’s agony. But, as poet Maya Angelou’s quote on a postage stamp states, “A bird doesn’t sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song.”

Poets write because that is what is they are made to do, and they are faithful. A poem in “Felicity” moved me to remember that we all are made to be a particular reflection of God in the world and that we, the world, and the cosmos are better off when we’re faithful to it. Jesus is the perfect example of such authentic living: He is God’s own life, and he shares it with us.

Wld rose bush with pink bloomsThe poem is “Roses.” Oliver writes of the quest to answer life’s “big questions” and decides to ask the wild roses if they know the answers and might share them with her. They don’t seem to have time for that. As they say, “…we are just now entirely busy being roses.”

How glorious if all humanity could know themselves as honestly and be themselves as genuinely as those roses. But we are wounded, and there is evil, and taking time to be still and listen to the Spirit within is difficult in the busyness of daily life.

The universe suffers from this disconnect. We see that in the eyes of the poor, marginalized, and war-weary. We see it in eyes reflecting anger, hatred, and fear that fuel violence. We hear it in the groaning of our planet with melting icecaps and water and air that poison its creatures

April is national poetry month. What better time to listen to the poets among us, past and present, who speak their truth and encourage us to do the same.

© 2016 Mary van Balen

Ted Kooser and Poetry Month

Ted Kooser and Poetry Month

Ted KooserHappy poetry month! I was pleased to see Ted Kooser, former US Poet Laureate featured on Garrison Keillor’s Writer’s Almanac as it began a month of presenting a poem and a poet each day. A blurb form the new York Times on the back of his Pulitzer Prize winning book, Delights & Shadows, states that Kooser has a “genius for making the ordinary sacramental.” Agreed.

Meeting Ted Kooser

I had the pleasure of conversation with Ted Kooser one Saturday afternoon. We were both at a writing conference: He was the keynote and a workshop leader. I was carrying a couple of manuscripts hoping to meet with an editor and agent. It’s a long story, but suffice it to say that I left a workshop to meet with an editor who didn’t show up (not her fault really. A scheduling mix-up). When I tried to return, the door had been closed and locked. So, there I was, wondering what to do next when I spotted Ted Kooser, sitting alone in the lobby. Turns out he was waiting for a ride to the airport.

I needed about two seconds to decide what I would do–introduce myself to the poet laureate and see what happened. We had a wonderful conversation, talking about a variety of things including teaching poetry and how terribly it was done in most schools. I told him of my practice of reading poetry to my class of adult GED students every day. Most of them were abused, victims of domestic violence, and single mothers. They loved poetry and filled journals with their own, finding it a way to deal with deep hurts and emotions.

Poem in the mail

Valentine poem by Ted Kooser on a postdardDuring one of his presentations he had made the generous offer of sending a valentine poem to anyone who’d like to receive one. He’d been doing it for years, he explained. I gave him my daughters’s address and my own. Sure enough, when Valentine’s Day came around we both received a postcard from Ted Kooser, postmarked in Valentine, Nebraska. It hangs, framed on my office wall.

“You revised that how many times?”

The following year, Ted Kooser gave a poetry reading at a nearby college. I offered to make the hour and a half drive, taking students who would like to go. We needed two cars and made an long night of it, starting with an early dinner. I bought them each a book of his poetry, and we arrived early enough to find great seats in the small auditorium.

He was delightful, and the audience was entranced. I’ll be forever grateful for his answer to one student’s question: “How many times did you revise that poem?” she asked, referring to a short one she particularly liked. “Oh, about 50 times, at least,” he said without a moment’s thought. All my students turned and looked at me, mouths hanging open. Suddenly, my insisting that they revise their writing a few times before moving on seemed reasonable. I never had another complaint.

He signed their books and smiled as I took a group photo while the long line of others, books in hand, had to wait. We ended the evening at a coffee shop in the small college town, sipping tea, munching cookies, sharing poetry, and excited conversation.

A poem a day

Treat yourself. Read a poem a day. There are plenty of online sites  The Writer’s Almanac is a good place to start, or you might want to sample some of Ted Kooser’s work: a great way to observe a month celebrating Poetry. Treat yourself. Read some of Ted Kooser’s work: a great way to observe a month celebrating Poetry.

 

Poetry and Prayer without Pews

Poetry and Prayer without Pews

Two books of Mary Oliver's poetry: "New and Selected Poems" and "Felicity."My day was off to a confused start. It was the time change. Usually, the clock by my bed adjusts for moving into or out of daylight savings time, but not this morning. Or maybe I just read it wrong. I hurried, washed my hair, and drove to church. No one was there. That’s when I realized: Daylight savings time was back. Sigh. Not a fan.

I decided to drive across town and retrieve my “Lorem Ipsum” scarf from the back seat of a friend’s car and to leave some of my columns for her. Took the wrong freeway. Circled back to catch the correct Interstate which I did, but in the wrong direction. Another circle and finally I was was headed east.

At home, I sat sipping coffee and chuckling at myself and the morning when the phone rang. It was my daughter. I gave her the rundown of the morning’s adventures before she could ask her question: What was the poem I had referenced in a text I sent to her last night. Something about what you’d do with your one wild and precious life.

Ah, the morning was wonderful again. “Mary Oliver’s ‘Summer Day’,” I said. Walking around the house, I found the book and began what became a poetry reading: “Summer Day,” “Roses,” “When Death Comes,” “Don’t Worry.”  Verse interspersed with my descriptions of Mary Oliver, the poet of attentiveness, prayer as attention, and then another poem.

I couldn’t stop, and my daughter was patient. I think she enjoyed it, actually. And when I hung up, I felt like I had been to church after all.

Trading the Past for the Present

Trading the Past for the Present

pink wildflower prairie smoke

PHOTO: Mary van Balen Prairie Smoke St. John’s Arboretum

Frist published in the Catholic Times  March 13, 2016

“Never before has anyone spoken like this man.” That’s what the guards said in response to the Pharisees’ questioning about why they hadn’t arrested Jesus and brought him in. Jesus held them spellbound by what he said and how he said it. Maybe they hadn’t gone to listen, but once they were in earshot, they couldn’t help it. There was something different, something new was afoot, and the man from Galilee was at the center of it.

I imagine many people heard the words, found them interesting, maybe even talked about them over dinner—but didn’t change their lives. They woke up the next morning and went about business as usual. Others, like the Pharisees, heard enough to make them fear for their power and position. Jesus was interesting, but dangerous.

Then there were others, like the guards, like the disciples who listened and were moved in ways they couldn’t understand. “Never before has anyone spoken like this man,” was the best they could do at the moment. Deep down, Jesus’ words and presence had stirred something within that defied explanation, but that was changing hearts and vision.

I thought of their words when I read the passage from Isaiah in this coming Sunday’s first reading. “Remember not the events of the past, / the things of long ago consider not, / see, I am doing something new! / Now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?”

What keeps us from seeing something new or from appreciating it? What kept some people from hearing Jesus and allowing his words to fill their hearts, while others did, even if at the moment, they couldn’t tell you just what those words meant? Understanding would come later.

I think Isaiah’s insight is a good one even today: Sometimes, what keeps us from being aware of a new reality is preoccupation with the past. Our minds are so filled with “chatter” that we notice nothing. We are living in our heads, and God is in the present.

It’s easy to get lost in thought and worry over past hurts: rejections, injustices, and failures. Internal debates can consume hours: What was said or not said. What I could have done but didn’t. What I shouldn’t have done, but did. Perhaps we rehash decisions made and directions taken: How different my life might be if only…

Isaiah was right to warn about spending time remembering things of long ago. Not only can we do nothing to change the past, but letting it consume time and attention keeps us from noticing what new life is being offered in the moment. “See, I am doing something new! Now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?”

The prophet sounds incredulous: How could you NOT see it?

Not Difficult. We have much to think and worry about. Jesus spoke of love, of God’s indwelling, of compassion for others and for ourselves. He spoke of suffering and serving the least among us. Such faith, such a message changes the world, a person at a time. We hear those words in scripture. Pope Francis reminds us of them eloquently in his actions as well as in his speech as do others in our lives. Creation itself speaks to us of wholeness and interconnectedness if we are paying attention.

But words of wisdom, ancient or not, must enter our hearts and take root there before they become transformative. Only when we notice and respond can something new spring forth. Are we listening? Are we open and welcoming despite the uncertainty of change? The Spirit within each of us is doing something new. Can we see it? Are we, like the guards, unable to pull ourselves away, not understanding, but knowing that some new way of being is offered if we have courage to follow? Do we trust that the same Spirit who stirs our hearts will provide strength to move forward? Do we trust others to do the same?

As we draw nearer to Holy Week and Easter, I wonder about Jesus and the stirrings in his heart. How carefully he listened as he grew and moved into his public ministry. How completely one he was with the Holy Mystery. How deep his trust not only in God, but also in the rest of us—his disciples, those guards, the generations of people to come. Jesus trusted us all to notice, to be transformed, and to carry on the work of salvation he had begun.

It is forever new. “Now it springs forth. Do you not perceive it?”

© 2016 Mary van Balen

God’s Mercy, Me, and the Fig Tree

God’s Mercy, Me, and the Fig Tree

green fig on tree branch

PHOTO: Lynn Greyling Public Domain

“Things take the time they take,” Mary Oliver writes in her poem, Don’t Worry (found in her latest book of poetry, “Felicity“). That’s good news. So was the gardner’s attitude in today’s gospel reading. A person had a fig tree planted in his orchard and was ticked that, after three years, it still wasn’t bearing fruit. He’d had it. His attitude was basically, “What’s the point?” To him that tree was a waste of  soil, space, and effort. Just cut it down and burn it up.

But the gardner had a different perspective. He wasn’t ready to give up on the tree. “Leave it in the ground and let me cultivate the ground around it, fertilize it. Who knows, it may bear fruit after all.” Then, as a nod to the irate owner, the gardner adds, “OK. If it still doesn’t produce some figs, then you can cut it down.”

God is even more patient and gives second chances. Well, actually, third, fourth, fifth, and on and on. There’s no end to the chances we get. It’s the mercy Pope Francis talks about. God has mercy on the fig tree, and on me.

As I said, it’s a good thing. Lent is half over, and I’m not doing so well. Still eating too much and spending more time than is healthy watching Netflix or videos. I haven’t been able to make myself delete spider solitaire from my iPad and it’s close to hand in the evenings. Three more weeks to go. Don’t give up.  God hasn’t.

Mary Oliver’s poem ends wondering how many roads St. Augustine took till he became St. Augustine.

I’m guessing lots.

 

Praying Presence at the Roosevelt

Praying Presence at the Roosevelt

white teacup filled with dark tea on deep green and white saucerBright sun was a welcome change from the grey overcast days we’d been having. I hurried along the sidewalk, passing upscale condos along the street adjacent to the downtown parking lot where my car waits everyday while I’m at work. The brown sandstone cathedral sits just across the street. I thought about dropping in, but opted for the church of buildings and people, cars and cracked sidewalks instead. The cathedral would be locked anyway.

I moved quickly, wanting to make the most of my break: Arrive at the Roosevelt Coffeehouse, order tea, and have time to read. After walking a  block to avoid construction, I turned left. There was a policeman walking in front of me and a man in front of him–an unsteady man whose black leather jacket hung oddly, drooping off the right side of his slight body. He had something slung over his shoulder. But what I noticed most was his stumbling gait and regular brushing against buildings’ old bricks.

I slowed, a participant in this odd, short parade, then turned down an alley, whispering a prayer for the man and for the policeman who followed him. Taking long strides and stretching my legs felt as good as the cool air and sunlight. When I turned left again and crossed the street, there was the man in the drooping black jacket. He must have walked faster, too. The policeman, no longer following, had stopped on the corner to chat with a security guard on a bicycle. Parade over.

Slipping into Roosevelts, my new favorite place to spend a break, I smiled at the barista and looked over the day’s menu of coffee and teas. How could I not order an oolong fig peach tea? I found a table by a window, pulled a book from my purse and settled in. Music comes from a turntable and donated records at this place, and the soundtrack from “Oh Brother, Where Art Thou” was playing. I remembered singing a variation of one song a cappella with my sister and my ex, years ago in tight, smooth harmony. My foot was tapping.

“Oh brother, lets go down, come on down, don’t you wanna go down? Oh sister, lets go down, down in the valley to pray.”

The tea arrived, lovely in a large white cup sitting on a saucer glazed with deep green. Steam rose like incense, and holding cupped hands above it, I savored the fragrance and warmth. I don’t remember when I stopped reading and started paying attention instead, but that’s what I did.

Aromas of freshly ground coffee beans and spicy teas were thick enough to taste. My tea rested on a table made of a repurposed bowling lane, its light wood encased in enough polyurethane to make it shine. All the tables and counters were made of the same luminous stuff.

People had gathered midday at this little place. There was a man in a flannel shirt engaged in lively discussion with two women. Between them was a scatter of papers covered with colored pie charts and notes. They were planning a meeting and exchanging phone numbers. Five or six people worked on laptops and three guys sat on stools at the counter, laughing and talking about music. One young woman, shutting it all out, or at least trying to, was studying.

I was paying attention. Watching bits of dust and steam lit up by sunlight coming in the window. Marveling at how different people are from one another, what different lives we have: the policeman, the jacket man, the people in this place, my coworkers just a few blocks away.

The congregation of the church outside the cathedral. The prayer, paying attention.  Simone Weil famously said, “Absolutely unmixed attention is prayer.” The ancient prayer of attentiveness, of being present to the moment, runs through the great traditions. Mary Oliver, a poet of attentiveness, writes:

Praying

It doesn’t have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t
a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.

Draining the last bit of tea from the cup, I packed up my book, said goodbye, and walked from the doorway of one church into the expanse of another.

 

 

Lent: Come As You Are

Lent: Come As You Are

small table with purple cloth, candle, cross, shells, feather, for Lent

Photo: Mary van Balen

Lent comes quickly this year. “That’s why I’m not ready,” I tell myself as I sit quietly and ponder this column. I wanted to be more centered. I wanted my office to be straightened up, desk uncluttered to better concentrate. I wanted to have prayed more, read more, been still more. But, here I am, on the brink of Lent, behind in lots of things, and not prepared for the season at all.

Or maybe, that’s how we are meant to greet this liturgical season: No big preparations. No cultural hoopla like the marketing blitz that accompanies the coming of Christmas. This is a “come-as-you-are” event, and usually, this is how I am.

I’m pulled in many directions, full of good intentions and forgotten resolutions. Jesus has words for me in this Saturday’s gospel. When the Pharisees ask him why he’s hanging out with the sinners and riff-raff, he seems a bit surprised. Why wouldn’t he? After all, he says, those who are healthy don’t need a physician; the sick do.

So as Lent approaches, I console myself with the thought that I fit right in. Jesus isn’t expecting my office table to be clear of papers, bills, and books. He knows me too well. I think he’d feel right at home at my dining room table. It hasn’t had a tablecloth on it since Christmas. Instead, it’s been home to my daughter’s 3-D printer that arrived during her stay as she recuperated from a broken foot.

And he wouldn’t mind eating leftovers or a hastily prepared meal after I return from a long day at work. No, as I read through the Mass readings before and after Ash Wednesday, I began to relax. If I’m willing to slow down and sit with Jesus at my table and in my heart, no matter the mess, then I’m ready for Lent.

Last week, a group of friends and I shared dinner, conversation, and prayer. One woman played a song, Pilgrim, by Enya, and this line caught my attention: “All days come from one day/That much you must know/You cannot change what’s over/But only where you go.”

All days come from one day. “That day is this day,” I thought. The present day, the only one we have. Paul says something like that in Ash Wednesday’s second reading: “In an acceptable time I heard you, and on the day of salvation I helped you. Behold, now is a very acceptable time; behold, now is the day of salvation.”

Now, this moment, is the acceptable time. This day. And then the day that follows. And the day that follows that. One day at a time is the day of salvation. The anonymous author of The Cloud of Unknowing puts it this way: “Therefore, be attentive to time and the way you spend it. Nothing is more precious…God gives only the present, moment by moment…”

The thing is, I’m often not there. Not following Enya’s wisdom, I’m tempted to rethink the past, allowing regrets and sorrow from yesterday’s pain to capture my attention. Or I can spend time speculating about future scenarios for family, friends, and our world.

What grace to have this liturgical season to remind us how important it is to embrace each day along with its joys and sorrows; to trust that “this day” has something good for us, or at least that some opportunity to grow, something good can come from it.

What blessing to have the wisdom of those who have gone before us. It’s a mixed-up crowd we walk with, this “communion of saints,” canonized or not, living or dead, who recommend ancient disciplines of prayer, fasting, and almsgiving for our journey through Lent.

There are as many ways to observe these directives as there are people who follow them. One may do well to abstain from food, another from “screen time.” One may need to give herself permission to celebrate who she is, while focusing on others might be the call for someone else. Maybe we give time, money, or talents. Perhaps the grace is in receiving what is offered.

But, what it comes down to is spending these forty-days shedding what gets in the way of attending to God-with-us. It’s about nurturing ways of being that help us listen to the Holy One within and believe the amazing truth that God loves us, calls us to share Love in this world, and will help us do it. It’s about choosing to live as fully as we can, trusting that all days will come from the one day lived well.

© 2016 Mary van Balen