I’m aware again today of the power of intention and the necessity of determination as well. I was awake, you see, at 4:45am but determined to take advantage of the 90 minutes still available to me for the rest that early morning sleep affords. With that in mind I did my best to let go of my mind’s busyness and today it worked! When I heard my alarm at 6:15 I was grateful and recognized a welcome “start-up” line floating through my consciousness. It was as if Kahlil Gibran had come himself to invite me to the day. To wake at dawn, he said, with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving. (from The Prophet, On Love).
With that gift, I was propelled out of bed and companioned at every step on the staircase to the kitchen with a “thank you” that just kept rolling effortlessly along. Thank you for this day, thank you for my feet that uphold me, for my Sisters still asleep and for the quiet, for the potential in this day at the office, for a clear sky…thank you, God, for everything I see and for the gift of sight…That may strike readers as simplistic and unrealistic but underneath that gushing waterfall of words is a deep knowing of the pain and suffering that exists in the world. The grace of today is that the suffering does not blot out the joy and gratitude for the life, the love.
It is somewhat like the experience that we see and hear reflected in the reports of the Bush family as they take their father/grandfather through the ceremonies of the next two days. The loss of this man to each of them and all of them – and to the country – is immeasurable. To allow his rest from the labors of his life and to celebrate what will remain in memory is the reward for letting him go into light.
May we each find reason to give thanks this day.
The psalmist is “waxing eloquent” this morning. As Psalm 8 rings in my inner sight, I recall the beautiful blue sky and sunshine of yesterday afternoon as I drove and sang with the accompaniment of longtime liturgical musicians whose music always stirs me to praise. This weekend was well begun last evening (see yesterday’s post) with a sellout crowd for our communal “walk down memory lane.” I look forward to a full day of enthusiastic sharing in words toward a hopeful future and feelings of gratitude for what we have been given throughout our history from our roots in 17th century France to worldwide service in love of God and neighbor.
Today we celebrate Pope John XXIII, canonized (some would add “finally!”) by Pope Francis in 2014. The website 
I have started this post three times in the past two minutes and am grateful for the technology that includes a “delete” button. It’s not that I have one thought stream; rather, there are too many words rumbling around in my head with no clear way to express anything. This happens sometimes when too much is going on and especially as I prepare to travel. It’s as if I need to be sure I have everything taken care of before I leave, especially remembering (of course) what needs to go with me.
It is said that “old habits die hard.” I was aware of that in a small way during the days of retreat from which I returned yesterday. Each morning when I awoke to the sounds of silence one of my first thoughts was of my daily writing task. Since I had announced the 5-day hiatus, I was able with just a grateful breath to simply turn toward the silence and enter the day where the only speaking was in sessions of prayer & reflection on the mystical practices of Sufism. What became the most obvious truth for me swirled around and into every hour of the day in the words of the chant: Wherever I turn, there is the face of God.
Today is the feast of St. Kateri Tekakwitha, the first Native American saint, whom we New Yorkers claim for our own. Kateri was born in 1656 in what is now Auriesville, New York and died only 24 years later. The daughter of a Mohawk chief and an Algonquin mother, she became an orphan at age four when a smallpox epidemic claimed both her parents and her brother. Her short life was one of generosity and holiness, influenced by Jesuit missionaries and her own deep faith.
Last evening I went to the Baccalaureate worship service for graduating seniors of the high school where I spent my first thirteen years as a teacher. It took place in the largest church in our area. (We used to call it “The Stardust Ballroom” because seating is in the round and there is recessed lighting throughout – a very “modern” venue in the 1970s.) Although the population of the school has diminished greatly over the years, the church was quite crowded with families that probably included some of my students who are now celebrating their grandchildren’s commencement. I was pleasantly surprised by the beauty of the service which ran like clockwork and included excellent (and brief) speakers for welcoming and thanking those in attendance, great lectors and beautiful music suitable to the youth but also very reverent. Two of the musical selections, solos by members of the class, were actually jaw-dropping. The first was a lovely young lady with a voice bigger than she was and then a young man, accompanied by a great cellist from his class, who sang the traditional and well-loved Latin hymn, Panis angelicus, which reached the entire church simply by the power of his voice. I was told that he has received a full scholarship to the Juilliard School of Music.
Again yesterday I was reminded of the importance of spiritual practice but this time that message came in a group gathering. Five of the seven members of our “practice circle” who were able to be present came together in Estelle’s lovely living room for what has become an increasingly important monthly meeting. As we first checked in with present events in our personal lives – some painful or difficult – we also expressed our gratitude for the sunshine and promise of spring (regardless of the 25 degree temperature and mounds of snow outside!) as well as our enthusiasm for being together.