Sacred Heart Hospital, Ireland

The front of our car fell off yesterday.

We had just come from visiting my father’s cousin at the Sacred Heart hospital for the elderly in Castlebar. Five of us piled in the car, eager to get to Mary’s to watch the All Ireland match, the equivalent of the Super Bowl. The streets were quiet as all of Mayo was in living rooms and pubs watching the match between Mayo and Dublin. I put the car in reverse. It didn’t move.

The driving experience in Ireland always feels a bit off to me – with everything on the wrong side. Still, it struck me as odd that we were not moving at all. I gave it some gas.

The car moved, but there was a strange noise. Then a man appeared at a window right where we are parked and stared right at us. I knew something was wrong.

My uncle Kevin and I jumped out of the car. There on the pavement was the front of the car. Light bulbs dangled from where the grill had been. I could not believe my eyes. Kevin and I both immediately started laughing.

Roddy and Dylan got out of the car and immediately joined the laughter. “What happened?” We had no idea.

Kevin went to examine. A few minutes later he reported that we had pulled up over the curb. When everyone got in, the car had sunk a bit and the front bumper had gotten lodged over the curb. When I put the car in reverse and hit the gas, it pulled the bumper right off.

Even so, my dad and Kevin were eager to get to the game.

“Let’s leave it,” Kevin said. “It’s ruined anyway.”

“Let’s tie it to the top of the car,” I suggested. I was not sure what would happen if we returned our rental car with half of it missing.

My dad went inside the hospital to see if he could find some rope. Kevin examined the Mayo flags hanging outside and pondered stealing them.

After a long while, my dad was still not back. “He probably climbed in a bed and is pretending to be a patient so he can watch the game,” Kevin speculated. We went to look for him to no avail.

Finally, he returned with two doctors in tow. “They don’t have rope,” he said. “But they have bandages.”

Bandages? For a car? "Are you kidding?" we asked.

He was not.

We opened the hood and the doctors got to work. They returned the grill to its proper place and then took out the bandages. “Scalpel,” one said to the other as they tied up the grill.

When the “surgery” was complete, one doctor turned to my dad. “Make sure you go fast. The wind will help it stay on.” He handed my dad some extra bandages, just in case.

Then he added, “I’ll see you back in the clinic in two weeks.”

Summer's End

The voices of resistance were strong on the way down. “I have too much work to do.” “My friend offered me tickets to the baseball game.” “What will there be for me to do?”

After a summer of planning of adventures for my children, I had planned this trip for me. They were not exactly enthused. But they knew it was fair.

The resistance disappeared when we got to the campsite overlooking the Big Sur coast.

We had reserved a site back in the trees, but made the decision to drive to a first come, first served campground overlooking the ocean, hoping. At first it seemed there were no sites. But then the host offered one right on the bluff. Whatever was grouchy, annoyed, or stressed inside shifted. We were grateful.

After tents were set up, we settled in to the quiet. One son grabbed the guitar and went and sat at cliff’s edge. Another picked up a hammer and entered into a scene in his imagination. I felt that other me emerge.

For years, I have been making my way to the coast in Lucia to put logs on the fire of my heart. The quiet of that particular section of the Big Sur Coast is thick, like fog. The beauty provides incredible perspective. There is so little that I need on that coast. “This is my wealth,” I told one son. “The fact that I can come here.”

Thursday we drove the two mile driveway up to the Camaldolese hermitage for mass. When I saw that it was a Mary feast day, I smiled. We’d almost made the trip the night before. What muse had stopped us and sent us on Mary’s day instead?

As we sat in silence waiting for mass to begin, a man I know from my children’s school walked in. Another coincidence, signifying what? That my love of the monastery and my life in Silicon Valley are not as far apart as I think?

We lingered at the monastery after mass. I showed the boys the hermitages where I often stay during my retreats. We picnicked at a table on the mountain top overlooking the wide open sea.

After a while, we drove to the state park next door. Walking through redwoods, I told them how sad I had been when the trees were damaged by fire a few years before. They pointed out that redwood bark is made for fire and that the trees are still alive.

Way back in the canyon, we sat at the foot of a beautiful waterfall. One son eagerly removed his t-shirt and stood in the cold water in delight. The other rested on a fallen branch in the sun looking up. Then we followed the creek back to the sea where a man made of stone faces the ocean in an eternal giggle.

Back at the campsite in late afternoon, we watched whales, climbed trees, and read. An Australian hiker had moved in to the site next door. As I prepared a warm meal for my boys, I noticed that he was eating a slice of bread for dinner. Without thinking, I invited him to join us for pasta and squash. He eagerly accepted and brought his loaf of bread to share.

Over dinner, he told us about how he had been traveling for 14 months through South and Central America and said he was finishing up his journey with a trip up the California coast. He shared stories of working on farms, meeting a woman in Nicaragua whose husband had been executed during the war, running out of money and surviving on the kindness of strangers. His whole perspective on life had changed dramatically during the course of his journey, he said.

As I listened, my perspective changed, too. His enthusiastic reception of a simple meal and water reminded me how extravagant is the flow of gift. I wondered whether my offering, that had flown effortlessly from my mother's heart, might someday be offered back to my children. I was also reminded about how my own travels to places of poverty and war in my early adulthood had led me to seek work and a way of life that could somehow be a response to what I had seen. Then, I told him about the hermitage. Though not a religious man, he was intrigued.

As darkness descended, we washed dishes and said goodnight. One son and I moved to the chairs on the bluff to watch the stars and discuss our sacred visitor.

The next morning I woke early. Instead of my usual meditation, I watched dolphins play in the surf and received the gifts that are so abundant at the coast. I wondered how I could bring this quiet and clarity back to my life at home.

I am back at that home in Silicon Valley now. I do not yet know the answer to my question on the bluff. But it is the grace I pray for now.

Madonna In the Promised Land

Listening to Bruce Springsteen has always been some kind of prayer for me.

I remember when I first discovered “Jungleland.” I was 14 and listening on my headphones as I floated on a raft in a pool in the Hamptons. With the volume turned up, I left that high-class world behind and entered a rock and roll meditation on the devastation and redemption that happens on the streets of a New York City summer. I did not personally know anything about that reality but the images, piano and saxophone captivated my heart and were an invitation to step out of my sheltered life into something more real.

I was thinking about that moment when I took my son Roddy to see Bruce Springsteen recently. Every time The Boss comes through town, we find a way to go. We make it work because there are some things in life that are too good to miss and Bruce Springsteen, for us, is one of them.

I first took Roddy to Bruce when I was pregnant with him. That was the only one of dozens of Springsteen shows I have been to where I was privileged to sit close to the stage. It was a sacred moment in my Springsteen journey, a fitting setting for my son’s prenatal initiation.

Since then, Roddy and I have seen Bruce together on several occasions. Each time, I feel a strange sense of parental satisfaction when I look over and see my son belting out each word. In those moments, I think, “If Roddy receives no other wisdom from me, he’s got Bruce and that is enough.”

It’s a crazy thought.

I am supposed to feel that way about Jesus. Or morality. And I do. When I see Roddy singing “Amazing Grace” or the “Regina Caeli,” I feel the same sense of satisfaction. But Roddy is 13 and right now Bruce is initiating him into the transforming power of ritual, the importance of social justice, and the mystery of resurrection in a way that Roddy gets and inspires him to be a better person.

Right about now I need to issue a few disclaimers. Yes, I have grown out of my teenage obsession with The Boss. I no longer want to be his girlfriend or anything like that (though I salute my teenage self for making such a fine choice in groupie obsession). I no longer need to trick or treat at his house on Halloween (but I am proud of my friend Katie’s and my dedication in driving to Rumson NJ to do so when we were 18). I no longer need to see him from the floor seats. Any time Bruce plays in town I am happy just to be there. It’s like going to see an old friend.

In recent years, I have been loving the fact that Bruce is claiming his sacred role as a minister of rock and roll. He started the last show I saw asking, “Are you ready to be transformed?” He has a Gospel choir singing with him now. And he has a whole collection of songs about the sacred rising that is at the heart of my faith.

Back in high school, I did not intellectually understand these connections Bruce was making to the religious imagination. But I could listen to his ballads over and over and they were forming me in ways I did not yet understand. “Drive All Night,” “Backstreets,” and “Racing in the Street” fascinated me, which was strange, because I was not a teenage male who lived for my car, or a man who had been broken by economic injustice. The chords of night and the hope Bruce could find there were what drew me. They pointed to some deeper mystery that I hoped was real.

In my senior year, I discovered the acoustic album, “Nebraska.” Listening to those plaintive tunes, I wondered what led “Johnny 99” to pick up a gun. The “State Trooper’s” struggle to figure out whether to arrest his brother or let him go troubled me. I was learning about the nuances of personal morality in religion class at my private Catholic school then. When I put on my headphones, I entered into the complexity of human choices that happen inside of profoundly unjust situations. I did not know about social ethics yet, but I was getting a primer thanks to Bruce.

Years later, “Across the Border” became a maternal hymn for me. Bruce was talking about immigrants dreaming of a better life. I was pregnant then and sang the song as an invitation to my child to cross from the world of Spirit into my life. Two years later that child and I were dancing in my living room to “Land of Hope and Dreams.” As Bruce described the train that was open to saints and sinners, I knew he was issuing the same invitation that Jesus did when he ate with lepers, tax collectors and Pharisees alike. Dancing with my son, I prayed that I too could find the courage to get on that train and trust the one who would take care of me if I followed my heart out of my wealthy world into a life sourced in God. It was not Bruce I heard inviting me to rest my head on his chest, but Bruce’s music brought that image from John’s Gospel to life.

Shortly after that, “The Rising” had a similar magnetic pull on my life. Bruce was singing about New York’s struggle to recover from 9-11 while I was walking through divorce. Writing right into the pain, Bruce somehow came out singing, “dream of life” as a kind of mantra. It was his honesty about grief and despair while keeping his soul oriented toward life that showed me how it was done.

When our country chose war in response to 9-11, Bruce wrote “Devils and Dust” about a soldier looking himself in the eye. When our government passed laws taking away our civil liberties, Bruce sang “The Devil’s Arcade” about politicians’ lies. These days he is clearly and powerfully telling stories that describe the impact on working class people of the choices people on Wall Street have made. His social analysis is compelling. But he does not let us get away with just taking it. Over and over he asks, “Is anyone alive out there?” and leads his audience in a celebration of life. Though we sit inside of an economic recession, no one is depressed after an evening with Bruce.

A year ago, I saw Bruce in Philly as our country was grappling with Trayvon Martin’s killing. It was powerful to see a white man sing “American Skin” to a mostly white audience about the reality of racism as he stood alongside a profoundly diverse band and then move into a musical celebration of Soul music. Every step of the way he tells the truth about what is wrong and then embodies hope.

That is why I feel like going to a concert is a celebration of The Paschal Mystery, the belief at the heart of Christian faith that right in the middle of the mess is where resurrection happens. That is the faith I want my son to have. I want him to know how to dance when life is falling apart. I want him to know how to see and name the truth when the powers and principalities are trampling on those who are vulnerable. I want him to know how hope is present even then so he can find a way to embody something else. I want him to know how to grieve as an honoring of life. And as a white man, I want him to know how to be in partnership with people who are different from him, all while having the time of his life.

For me that is what the Gospel is all about, which is why I am so glad that my son has the words of Bruce Springsteen written on his heart and firmly implanted on the soles of his dancing shoes. Yes I have done what I promised to do at the moment of his baptism. I have passed on the heart of my faith to my beloved son, thanks to The Boss.

Easter Meditation

Palm Sunday

A man died at our beach today.

It was low tide, the kind that comes when full moon and solstice coincide -- the kind that pulls the ocean way back to reveal gifts that lie under water. I love that low tide. Normally, I am too afraid of riptides to go in the water. But at low tide, I let myself walk out on the ocean floor and gaze back at the shore that is my home.

Lots of people were out today, enjoying the sun and the beginning of spring. I was inside, trying to catch up on home and hearth after two weeks away. I did not know it was low tide. I did not even notice the police cars and fire trucks until my friend Dave stopped by and asked what was up. We decided to wander out to the beach to see.

At the top of the dunes, we saw coastguard boats in the water and knew it was not good. A panicked woman hurried by, telling me not to let my children go near the ocean. “One minute he was there,” she screamed. “Then we turned around and he was gone!” A twenty-two year old man had been playing football with his friends near the water. No one knew exactly what had happened.

I gathered my boys close and said a prayer. For the man. For his friends. For his mother.

We watched the search for a while. But there was nothing we could do. Eventually, we went back inside and resumed our lives.

One of my sons did not. All day he stood at the beach, watching, waiting. It was not until dinner that I realized how affected he was.

“I just can’t believe it,” he said, looking out at the ocean. “Someone died out there.”

“Let’s go out and pray for him,” I responded, knowing I needed to help him find his way through.

It was almost dark when we got out to the beach. The search had been called off. The beach was empty. As evening turned to night, my son and I stood facing the water, gazing at the ocean we love in silence, listening to the questions that have no answer.

Tuesday

When I woke, the full moon was setting over the ocean. This is one of the great gifts of our lives. A few times a year, if we are lucky, we get to see the moon make its descent at dawn.

I woke the boys. "Something amazing is happening right outside your window!"

Internally, I was hoping that this gift would restore their sense of joy at the beach.

Holy Thursday

Today my sons and I decided to leave our home next to the ocean. For the past year, I have known it was time to move and have been listening for next steps. In January, I became clear that I was being called deeper into the world and deeper into wilderness. For me, that means moving my family closer to their school in Silicon Valley and finding a hermitage in a rural setting. I thought this would happen over the summer.

But yesterday I received news that the rodent situation in my home is worse than I thought. For the past several months, I have been battling a variety of pest issues that I have playfully referred to as plagues. When I heard the exterminators report, I knew it was time to go. Like Pharaoh, I had given up fighting God’s signs. 24 hours later, we had signed a lease on an apartment in Redwood City.

Shortly after signing, I headed to the monastery for my Easter retreat. Here in the silence, with the stress of needing to make a quick shift behind me, I feel the grief of saying goodbye to a place that I love.

For the past seven years, I have lived next to the ocean. How I have delighted in watching my boys jump off the dunes and experience the earth as their playground. How I have loved to sit on the sand, listening. Dolphins, pelicans, seals, ravens and a hawk have been my neighbors. The moon and stars my entertainment. The sound of the foghorn has been like the beating of the mother’s heart. Living at the ocean has been an unspeakable gift.

I came to the ocean seeking healing. I was newly divorced then. It felt as if my world had collapsed and the ground beneath me had disappeared. In the early days, I often woke before dawn to study the lights of the fishermen who floated on the water in the dark, unafraid.

Gradually, the earth returned beneath my bare feet. The ocean healed me.

After the monk washed my feet tonight, he looked up and said to me, “May you always know that you walk in God’s love.”

Good Friday



The starkness of the liturgies and chapel today is striking. The cross and icons are all covered. The afternoon liturgy began with the monks lying face down on the cold chapel floor in veneration. There is no easy Easter here. We walk a long slow journey with death.

This seems to be my year of sitting with death. Last fall, a deer lay down in the yard outside my rural office and died. Through several seasons, I have watched that beautiful animal return to the earth, understanding its graceful decay as a gift and a teaching.

Also last fall, my friend Helen died. During the four weeks between learning her illness was terminal and her passing, she chose to embrace her death as her final spiritual practice. She called in spiritual mentors and friends to help her die consciously. The weaker her body became, the stronger her spirit, until, as her husband says, “she was all spirit.”

Helen’s open-hearted release into death has also been a powerful teaching for me. I, too, want to live in a way that opens my heart and strengthens the love in me so that when I die I am ready to let go into the love that is stronger than death. What if every letting go in life were an opportunity to practice that?

That is what I am thinking about tonight as I sit with Mary Magdalene at the tomb of Jesus.

Holy Saturday

“A sword will pierce her heart.” Holy Saturday vigils.

The fast is over. I want it to be Easter. Instead, there is another day of sitting at the tomb.

I have been working on a collage all morning. At the monastery, I often paste together images from magazines, creating a pattern that flows from a part of me that understands more than my mind. Today’s collage has a heart at the center. “Empty yourself completely…” some words say. “Jesus has conquered death,” say others.

On the right side, I have images of the life that I think is coming in our new apartment in Redwood City. I am having a hard time finding images for the life we are leaving behind. I don’t want to go there. Every time I find an image of the ocean I cry.

It is so much easier to shut all that off and focus on moving forward. Conventional wisdom affirms this instinct. But the Triduum and my spiritual director are clear. Stay with the grief. It is the doorway to Easter.

Today, I am practicing feeling the grief of letting go of what I love. I am practicing opening to the love that is stronger than death.

Night

I am scared. “What if?” the voices say, offering their various terror inducing scenarios. As I lie down, I feel the anxiety that I gave up this Lent.

I try breathing. The anxiety remains.

“God, I am scared. Help.”

Outside, rain pounds on the roof of my trailer.



Easter

At 4:30 am, the monks were already gathered outside the chapel, lighting the fire. It was hard to light this morning. Rain had left everything damp.

Finally, the fire started. In silence, we lit our candles and then processed inside where we listened to the history of salvation in candlelight.

Right before the Gospel, a monk turned on all the lights. Lilies were everywhere.

There is such a beauty to the liturgies at the monastery. There are none of the distractions that come with the cultural celebrations of the Holy Days. There is only meditation on mystery.

The prayers, the chanting and the silence are deeply helpful to me. They feed a part of me that is brave, that is willing to let go and walk into the unknown, the part of me I call Lily.


Home

I am home now. This oceanfront cabin will be that for only a few days more. I feel this chapter of my life slipping away.

My days are full of packing boxes. At night I do a different kind of work with my tears.

This evening, I remembered a dream I had a couple of months ago. In the dream, I was kayaking with friends and family. We were headed to a monastery located on an island, seeking blessing.

When we got there, we took turns receiving the blessing. When it was my turn, the abbess closed her eyes. Then she called over a sign language interpreter, explaining, “This blessing needs to be given in sign.” While the interpreter moved her hands, the abbess translated. “The goddess who lives under the ocean floor where the ocean meets the shore offers you her blessing.”

It’s time to once again let the tides in my life turn. I open my hands, release the gift of this home that I have cherished, and move forward, grounded in blessing.

Joy leads the way.