PHOTOS:Mary van Balen
Short gray hair replaced the long dark cascades that framed her face in younger years and some songs were voiced in a lower pitch, but Joan Baez still sang songs that called blessings on the poor and homeless, the “salt of the earth,” that lamented the injustice suffered by “deportees,” and that called for peace.

Her voice occasionally soared in the same hauntingly clear tremulous soprano tones that had filled concert halls and farm worker’s fields in the 60’s and 70’s. More often, the sound was softer, and once the ending of piece appeared sooner than expected, dangling awkwardly for a moment between her and the young man who was accompanying her on guitar.

“We love you, Joan!” someone in the audience shouted.

She looked up. “Even with all my flaws?”

The answer was resounding applause. “Yes!”

“Well, they will spill out all over,” she said with a smile. If they did, no one noticed.

The evening was a delightful ninety minutes, honoring not only the woman standing humbly before us, honestly singing out her heart and soul, but also her years of giving, of challenging, of championing the poor and forgotten.

The crowd relished joining in on the chorus of “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down.” I managed to refrain from singing along with so many that I had sung as a young woman myself in coffee houses, sing-a-longs, and war protest marches. Joan Baez had been a heroine. Along with Pete Seeger, Bob Dylan, and Peter, Paul, and Mary, she was an inspiration and source of songs that became part of my repertoire.

How refreshing to join with others in celebrating the gift of a life well-lived. No feigned Hollywood perfection. No attempt to hide evidence of hard fought struggles. No adulation of youth. Age does not diminish what we have to give to the world, only how we offer it. At nearly seventy, Joan Baez still tours the world, singing her songs, lifting the marginalized into view, calling for justice, recognizing God with us, and asking for blessings.

After the concert, I visited with a friend I had sung with years ago. He is recovering from open-heart surgery and this was his first night out. Like Joan Baez, he is still singing. When he left, I wandered outside and joined a handful of others hoping to see Joan. Time passed quickly as I shared conversation with a mother and daughter who had arranged to enjoy the evening together: Christy and Elise.

PHOTO:Christy
Finally Joan emerged from the theater and walked to the large touring bus. Tired as she must have been, she graciously signed autographs and posed for photos with her fans. I was grateful for the opportunity to thank her for her life, for her work, and appreciated the hug she gave me in return.
© 2010 Mary van Balen

PHOTOS: Mary van Balen

“Exultation is the going
of an inland soul to the sea
Past houses – past headlands–
Into deep Eternity.” Emily Dickinson

Such was the gift my daughter gave to me last week in celebration of my 60th birthday. The deep spiritual connection of my “inland soul” to sea is well known to family and friends, and for me, time at the beach is more retreat than vacation. This trip was no different.

From the moment she called with the invitation to spend a few days on the Outer Banks, staying in a hotel room with an ocean view (a first for me), details fell into place: This gift was meant to be.

My work schedule included the following weekend off; a friend offered to switch my Monday hours for hers on Thursday, allowing me to stay longer; air fare was affordable.

As I told my daughter, anticipation spread the joy of her gift over the week before as I grinned through every day, greeting customers with sparkling eyes, a wide smile, and interminable good humor. By Friday afternoon, I needed reminded to hand receipts to customers and I pulled wrong-sized bags out of the drawers. When workmates helped remedy my mistakes, I smiled some more and explained my absentmindedness: “In a few hours, I’m going to the beach!”

I packed for cool weather, but needn’t have taken a jacket since temperatures hovered around 80F during the day while we walked miles along the beach. I even ventured into to water to receive the salty baptism of the sea.

On Sunday we saw five weddings in various stages: 10.10.10. I had forgotten. We walked quickly trying not to clutter wedding photographs and wondered about the desirability of having strangers in swimsuits or casting fishing lines appear in one’s wedding album.

I found shells at Coquina Beach and as usually happens, some particular type, different each trip, spoke to my soul. While I collected fragments worn by decades of salt, sand, and waves, ideas for using them in retreats and presentations filled my head.

As wonderful as time at the ocean was, equally wonderful was time spent with my daughter. As our children grow into adults and come home for visits, a mother’s time with them is squeezed between errands and visits they make with old friends. Three days with my youngest was a delight. We talked, laughed, slept in, watched a little tv, drank wine, tried new restaurants, and checked out the Wright Brothers Memorial.

I had the pleasure of seeing her office and meeting one of her bosses. You who have adult children know the joy of seeing them in their own element, learning about their work, and meeting the people who fill their lives.
I am home again in landlocked Ohio, but gifts of the ocean remain in my heart wrapped in the love of my daughter.
© 2010 Mary van Balen

PHOTO: Mary van Balen
When my alarm rang this morning, I struggled to leave the comfort of my warm bed. A schedule change required a half-hour drive for allergy shots before work rather than after. The day was gray and rainy. After visiting the doctor’s office, I decided to stop at a local Panera’s to pick up a breakfast sandwich and coffee; the drive to work was close to an hour and the day would be long.

A young man with the interesting nametag “RAF” cheerfully took my order, but when I reached for my wallet, it was not there. After rummaging through my purse for a few moments, I found my checkbook.

“I’m sorry. I left my wallet at home. May I pay with a check?”

“I’m not sure,” RAF answered. “This is only my second day on the job. Let me check.”

He came back shaking his head.

“I’m sorry. We don’t take checks.”

I put the checkbook back in my purse, resigned to a hungry morning before lunch.

“That’s ok. Thanks for checking,” I said, but before I could pull the zipper closed, RAF had an idea.

“I’ll be right back,” he said and disappeared into the kitchen, and when he returned he held his own wallet.

“Breakfast is on me,” he said, and flashed a brilliant smile.

“Really? Are you sure?”

“Yep,” he replied as he swiped his credit card.

“I could write YOU a check,” I said.

“No,” he said, “Anyone would have done the same. This will be my good deed for the day.”

I have always found the workers at Panera’s restaurants pleasant, but I don’t think anyone would have done the same. RAF’s kindness touched my heart; energy replaced tiredness and the day ahead looked much brighter. Suddenly I remembered that I had put a small camera purchased just yesterday in my purse.

“Wait! I am an author and write a blog, and I bought this little camera for just such a moment. Would you mind,” I said to RAF and to his manager who had been listening,” if I took a photo? I would like to put this on my blog tonight.”

They gave me the go ahead and you are reading the result. (RAF’s smile lit up the room, but the photo I took with the smile was a bit blurry: my fault, not the camera’s.) I found out that “RAF” stands for “Raphael,” an appropriate name for this young man. In the Catholic and Orthodox tradition, the angel, Raphael, appears in the Book of Tobit, and calling himself Azarias, he travels with the younger Tobias and heals the older Tobit of his blindness. Only after his good deed does he reveal that he is the angel Raphael.

“Raphael” from Hebrew means “It is God who heals.” Through his act of kindness to me this morning, Panera’s Raphael let God’s compassion shine through to a woman, definitely not a morning person, who was off to a rather bad start.

Coincidence or not, as I headed North for the hour drive to work, the sky was blue, and by the time I arrived at the department store, the clouds had changed from gray to pink and white.

I had to run from my car to clock in on time, and another sales clerk standing outside opened the door for me.

“Someone’s in a hurry,” she said and smiled as I thanked her.

Raphael’s kindness started a chain of goodness that lasted all day. I told his story to many of my customers and they left the counter smiling. The story helped as I struggled with a return, purchase, and gift receipts. The woman didn’t mind the long wait, but enjoyed hearing about RAF, and the recalcitrant register and my own mistakes didn’t perturb me.

Thanks, Raphael. My day and the day of many others was brighter for your good deed! Panera’s is lucky to have you on its team.
©2010 Mary van Balen

PHOTO: Mary van Balen
This morning I stopped at the grocery store on my way to work and bought boxes of animal crackers to share on Saint Francis’ feast day.

The morning was lovely. Clouds filled the sky, and though they looked as if they might bring rain later, in the morning they shone with sunlight. I stepped out of my car and smiled at the store employee who was collecting shopping carts from the parking lot.

“Good morning!” I said with a smile. “It’s a beautiful morning, isn’t it?”

He smiled back. “Yes, it is. They all good.”

His words stayed with me while I worked at the department store, decorated a birthday cake, and enjoyed dinner and prayer with friends.

He was right. Some days the sun shines; on others rain pours from grey skies. Some days are humid and hot; others are frigid and snowy. No matter. Each day is a gift to embraced. Each brings blessings, and even if they are not apparent at the moment, in time, creation weaves them into bounty.

Each day is an invitation to life. Sometimes I forget that, and instead of living “wide awake” I move through the hours oblivious to the present moment. No matter the weather outside or in my heart, I will try to remember the wisdom of the man in the grocery store parking lot: “They all good.”
© 2010 Mary van Balen

PHOTO: Mary van Balen
Another cool, blue-sky day. I rose early to bake a carrot cake before driving off to work. A friend’s birthday is Monday, and this particular recipe requires refrigeration for two days before icing and serving. A kitchen that smells of spices and carrots justifies an earlier than usual start to my day. After making counter top room for cooling cake, I noticed the striking color combination of drying Italian chili peppers and chestnuts waiting to be roasted.

Both were shared bounty from my walk with Melanie a few days before. With packing mostly finished and legal papers finally signed, I look forward to spending more time cooking and baking. One of the pleasures of making one’s own meals is enjoying the variety of colors, textures, and aromas that accompany such culinary pursuit.

I will succumb to fast food, restaurants, and take out pizza, but they will not constitute the major part of food intake. At least I hope not. Truly “seeing” an apple, feeling its shape, smelling its freshness is part of my food “ritual.” I leave eggplant resting on the counter for a day or two to drink in its shiny purpleness; appreciating the assortment of shapes and infinite shades of green in a tossed greens salad before the first forkful is raised to my mouth; smelling cinnamon and ginger when lifting the cookie tin lid.

Cooking for oneself has many advantages. Cost of course is a big one for those of us on tight budgets. Even greater than that is the opportunity for immersion in the experience, from beginning to end. Present to the moment, as I like to say, equals prayer since God is right there with us, enjoying our enjoyment.
© 2010 Mary van Balen

Photo: Mary van Balen
On the last two mornings of September I walked with a friend along paths that wended through her property. New England Asters, golden rod, bindweed, and bittersweet splashed color across fields of browning green grasses and dark stalks that once held summer flowers. Fog hung hundreds of spider webs with crystal drops revealing the variety of design: some webs lay close to the ground, others hung between tall grasses. Later, we sipped tea and ate a breakfast of dates, nuts, and thin toast with butter. A perfect way to say good-bye to summer and September.

This morning I woke to a clear blue sky brushed with a few thin white clouds. My sister from Michigan had been visiting, and after she left I decided to enjoy the first October morning by sitting on the wooden bench swing in the back yard, skimming grass tips with the soles of my feet while slowly eating a Heath Klondike ice cream bar. Ah.

Thich Nhat Hanh would have approved. I savored every bite, letting the smooth ice cream melt in my mouth and paying attention to the taste of toffee chocolate coating. The rest of the day was split between errands, phone conversations with a fiend recuperating from by-pass surgery and a late evening cookout with one of my daughters, washing down hamburgers and baked beans with the season’s first apple cider.

October feels especially invigorating this year: Mirroring nature’s change, my life is moving from one season to another, and I am ready. Facing an unknown future, I feel like I am walking into crisp, cool air. My energy level is higher than it has been for a year.

Looking at leaves beginning to turn into gold, I remember that life is a cycle and that death is really the beginning of new life. I look forward to the new season in nature and in my own journey.

As you observe the changes around you and feel cool air slip over your skin, give thanks for life that grows of out of death in our world and in our souls, even if its roots sink deep into pain. October speaks eloquently: Change, and life are good. Celebrate them both!
© 2010 Mary van Balen

PHOTO: Thich Nhat Hanh, photographer unknown

On the back cover of “Living Buddha, Living Christ,” by Thich Nhat Hanh, Thomas Merton wrote: “Thich Nhat Hanh is more my brother than many who are nearer to me in race and nationality, because he and I see things the same exact way.”

Perhaps surprising from a Cistercian monk, but not if you have read much of Merton and Thich Nhat Hanh. I took “Living Buddah, Living Christ” with me on a trip to Thailand, knowing I would be staying in a predominantly Buddhist country. (On an earlier trip I read “Buddhism for Beginners” for the same reason: to understand and appreciate the people I would be living amongst.)

While sorting through books, deciding I could not live without, which I would pack away, and which I could give away, I came across another book by the Buddhist monk: “The Miracle of Mindfulness,” given to me by my daughter. Last week, I began reading it before going to sleep. The chapter “A Day of Mindfulness” resonated with deep-seated longing in my soul; What Thich Nhat Hanh called “a day of mindfulness” I knew as “Sabbath.”

Every Saturday, observant Jews move along my street on their way to synagogue. The men wear suits and yarmulkes or broad brimmed black hats; women were dresses and hats, often walking in heels. Some push baby strollers or hold the hands of their children. I watch for a moment, inspired by their faithfulness, then continue with my busy day.

Christians keep Sunday, the Lord’s day, sort of. Some are more faithful than others, and from all the people I see shopping at the department store where I work, I suspect most of us use Sunday to accomplish what we have been unable to do the other six days of the week.

Reading Hanh’s chapter on a day devoted to mindfulness hit me like a cold wave on a hot day. His words grabbed my whole attention: mind, body, spirit, perhaps because they expressed in an exotic way a reality that has become dangerously familiar. How often have I written about the importance of being “present to the moment” in order to encounter God? How often am I successful in doing it?

From “The Miracle of Mindfulness”:

“In principle, of course every day should be your day, and every hour your hour. But the fact is that very few of us have reached such a point…So I urge that everyone set aside one day each week.”

“To set up a day of mindfulness, figure out a way to remind yourself at the moment of waking that this is your day of mindfulness.” (A van Gogh print of sheaves of wheat that reminds me of all creation joining in prayer hangs in my bedroom.)

“Don’t do any task in order to get it over with. Resolve to do each job in a relaxed way, with all your attention. Enjoy and be one with your work…The feeling that any task is a nuisance will soon disappear if it is done in mindfulness.”

“Drink your tea slowly and reverently, as if it is the axis on which the whole earth revolves–slowly, evenly, without rushing toward the future.”

(Drinking my cup of morning tea today, I realized I was not in the moment at all, but busily planning how I can pack up all the stuff in the spare bedroom to make it look neat for a realtor’s visit on Monday, what strategy I should use for finding a better job, when I can squeeze in time to write notes to two friends who have had surgery. The list goes on. I won’t meet God in the moment when I cannot be IN the moment, or as Hanh says, in mindfulness.)

“In the evening, you might read scripture and copy passages, write letters to friends, or do anything else you enjoy outside of your normal duties during the week. But whatever you do, do it in mindfulness.”

“Somehow we must find a way to allow each worker a day of mindfulness. Such a day is crucial. Its effect on the other days of the week is immeasurable…The day of mindfulness will begin to penetrate the other days of the week, enabling you to eventually live seven days a week in mindfulness.”

No wonder Merton found a brother in Thich Nhat Hanh. Christian mystics and teachers of prayer encourage similar practices to guide those who desire a deep expereince God in their lives and to grow closer to Jesus Christ.

Thank you, Thich Nhat Hanh for the powerful reminder.
© 2010 Mary van Balen

Chart: Astro Bob
If you have clear skies tonight and a chance to go outside after 9pm, you will see Jupiter brighter than any star in the sky. The planet is closer to earth than it has been for forty-seven years! If you are interested in finding out why, check Astro Bob’s website, a user friendly site for those who are new to watching the night sky as well as for those with more experience.

Jupiter will be easy to see for a number of nights, so if you didn’t see it tonight, you will have plenty of opportunities to enjoy the sight. However, the planet will be a bit further away tomorrow and nights following.

I love to sit out in the long wooden swing just outside the back door. Even in light-polluted city skies, Jupiter and the moon are breathtaking. A small pair of binoculars will enhance your view of the moon, and perhaps you will be able to see one or more of Jupiter’s moons. If you have a telescope, consult Astro Bob’s website for times when Jupiter’s large red spot will be visible.

Perhaps Psalm 8 was written on a night like tonight. I include James Cotter’s rendering of the Psalm. ( Psalms for a Pilgrim People) Those of you familiar with Cotter’s work will not be surprised, but if you have not read his “unfolding” of Psalms, you probably will be as you read his additions to this one. While it is not a new or literal translation, Cotter’s words capture the wonder of the universe from the perspective of a 21st century poet.

“Refrain: Creator bod, Source of all life,
how gloriously does your name resound,
echoing to the bounds of the universe!

The morning stars sing for joy, and the youngest child cries your name.
The weak in the world shame the strong, and silence the proud and rebellious.

When I look at the heavens, even the work of your fingers,
the moon and the stars majestic in their courses –
the eagle riding the air, the dolphin ploughing the sea,
the gazelle leaping the wind, the sheep grazing the fells –
who are we humans beings that you keep us in mind,
children, women, and men that you care so much for us?

Yet still you bring us to life, creating us after your image,
stewards of the planet you give us as our home.
How awesome a task you entrust to our hands.
How fragile and beautiful is this good earth.

Creator God, amid the immensities of the universe you seek us out and call us to be partners in your work of creating. May we not fail you.”

Amen!
© 2010 Mary van Balen

PHOTO: Pierre Teilhard de Chardin
After an “on the porch” picnic of barbecued ribs, homemade applesauce and slaw, steaming cornbread, and fresh fruit, our small group moved to the living room for prayer and a report from one member of her recent trip to Africa where she had presented workshops on centering prayer and mid-life transitions to religious communities in Zambia.

Part of our prayer was reflection on wisdom from paleontologist,theologian, and mystic Pierre Teilhard de Chardin. The adapted reading spoke to my soul, impatient and disheartened with my life’s current situation.

Rather than comment on the reading, I will share it here with confidence that it will speak to the heart of many others. The text did not have any notes identifying the source (though it appears to be taken from a letter)or the editor Teilhard’s words.

“Above all, trust in the slow work of God. We are, quite naturally, impatient in everything to reach the end without delay.

We would like to skip the intermediate stages. We are impatient of being on the way to something unknown, something new, and yet it is the law of all progress that it is made by passing through some stages of instability– and that may take a very long time.

And so I think it is with you. Your ideas and values mature gradually–let them grow, let them shape themselves, without undue haste. Don’t try to force them on, as though you could be today what time (that is to say, grace and circumstances and acting on your own good will) will make you tomorrow.

Only God could say what this new spirit, gradually forming within you, will be. Give God the benefit of believing that God’s hand is leading you, and accept the anxiety of feeling yourself in suspense and incomplete.”
© 2010 Mary van Balen

PHOTO: Mary van Balen
I take heart remembering that Blessed Pope John XXIII, in his autobiography, “Journal of a Soul”, called himself a beginner when it came to prayer, always a beginner. Last night I went to bed in an agitated state, thinking about full time jobs and my lack of having one, the mess waiting to be neatly repacked in boxes, and final papers for the dissolution. I woke in pretty much the same state, so I shouldn’t have been surprised when quiet prayer was anything but quiet.

I confess to keeping the Deity patiently waiting as I jumped in and out (mostly out) of recollected stillness in the Divine Presence. One moment my mind was emptying all itself of self as Sir Thomas Browne wrote in his insightful poem; in the next it was working out a cover letter for a position at a local university. This happened again and again.

My life, my soul, seemed to be spread out in disorder that rivaled that of my belongings taunting me from behind the closed bedroom door. What hope for me? John XXIII might have thought of himself as a beginner, but he DID become pope after all. I can’t even find a job.

Banishing those destructive thoughts, I tried again and again to return to stillness. For forty minutes I tried.

“I’m sorry I’m such a mess,” was the best prayer I could muster. “I hope your feminine side is ready to draw me close. I could use a warm comforting hug,” I continued. “And for the Father in you, well, I could use some rock-solid confidence and protection from myself. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

So it went. Now I am on to laundry, packing boxes, and delivering papers to my attorney. One encouraging thought that the good pope and I share: When I return tomorrow, the Holy One will be there as always, patiently waiting with Love and a smile.