More from Bekah in Kenya

More news from Bekah in Kenya! She is back from her weeks in the village of Shirazi on the coast near Mombasa. And there are two new blog posts that bring us up to date on that experience.

Swahili lessons beneath a mango tree, eating sweetened spaghetti, watching inventive children at play, and the sounds of goats and the Muslim call to prayer. Bekah says in many ways it was a "regression into childhood"--eating with her hand, and being dressed by her host family among other experiences.

Guess you'll just have to read about it. Here's the link to the first post about Shirazi; be sure to go on the second.

Falling on my Knees, Thinking of Japan

I've actually got lots of posts lining up within me waiting to be written. At least that's how it feels some days. As if this not-writing has gone on long enough and until I get going again, I'm going to be a bit stuck.

Something about letting creative forces flow where they will. Even if I think I ought to be or would rather be painting just now, if I keep stuffing these writing ideas, sooner or later I'll find myself stuck. Clogged. Dammed up.

But before I try to write anything else, I want to write my own most respectful and sorrowful pause in honor of the people of Japan and the terrifying events that have been unfolding there and continue to unfold.

So . . . a moment of silence. Many moments of silence throughout my days. Sending, in whatever ways may come to me, my prayers, blessing, love, compassion.

Some moments all I can think to do is bow to the ground. Fall on my knees and bow to the ground and hold them in my heart.

Spiritual Direction: hanging my shingle

                                                    Pink Tulips, © Sukie Curtis, 2011

I think it was probably five or more years ago that a friend of mine first suggested that I join and list myself with Spiritual Directors International, since spiritual direction is something that I do. For some reason, I decided rather quickly that it just didn't sound like me to do something like that. Don't ask me why!

It occurred to me the other day that I wasn't sure if I had ever looked at their website before I made that decision, and that it might not be a bad idea to take a peak!

Imagine my surprise and delight when I actually liked what I saw and found some helpful resources there, too. Which led me to decide to become a member.

Which also led me to see if I could write a "blurb" in 100 words or less to include in their directory. The word limit was one of those things that felt both impossible and at the same time helpful. As if I knew that without some sort of limit I could forever get lost in refinements and subtleties ad infinitum. Perhaps even ad nauseam. The 100 words became an almost fun sort of challenge--to speak concisely and with integrity about something that's in the realm where language gets so easily muddled.

So here it is: my 100 (more or less) word shingle.

Spiritual direction brings attention to the "holy conversation" beneath the surface of your life. Whether you believe this conversation is between you and a transcendent God, creative energy or power (by whatever name) or between you and your own "true self"--or both!--matters surprisingly little. As spiritual director I serve as witness, mirror, and guide as you hear and trust your soul's deep wisdom, truth and longings. I bring years of experience as spiritual director; former Episcopal priest; mother, wife, human being. I am a grateful and playful painter and writer and above all (in Mary Oliver's words) "a bride married to amazement."

There you have it! What do you think?

Hearing Voices

I was reaching for the pair of scissors in the broken-handled mug on my bedside table (my best desk scissors being missing from the drawer--ahem! Anna?), when I heard a voice.

Well, not really a voice. I heard the words, "What are you doing?"

Well, I didn't really hear them out loud, either. But I heard them clearly from within.

As clear as Elijah is said to have heard God's voice when he was hiding out in a cave feeling self-righteous and sorry for himself. "What are you doing here, Elijah?" he gets asked twice. I thought of that story mere seconds after I had asked myself that question.

What are you doing looking for scissors right now, when I thought you were sitting down to write?

Some days when I'm paying attention, I catch myself in the act of getting distracted--being drawn away from the task at hand toward something else. Sometimes toward some new, shinier task (the new possibilities nearly always appear more interesting than the present), sometimes toward . . . God only knows. Just away from what I'm doing.

It happens often when I'm in the midst of writing in my journal. I will suddenly find myself capping my fountain pen as if I had decided I was finished, when in fact just seconds before I was writing happily, perhaps even pursuing a new thread, and had no inkling I was ready to stop.

What's this about? I used to wonder.

Now I assume that there's some sort of unconscious "distract mode" that gets triggered for reasons that my conscious mind is not aware of. It happens so fast--it's not as if I am aware of any sort of consultation or deliberation going on inside.

I am writing away, and then, quite suddenly, I'm capping my pen.

Or opening my laptop to check my email or see what's happening on Facebook. Or . . . or . . . . The possibilities are nearly endless.

Occasionally it seems very clear that I've started to write about a topic that might feel a little murky or "dangerous" to my ever-watchful, self-protective ego. Some part of me doesn't want to go there, wherever there happens to be.

Other times I wonder if there's a more subtle form of self-sabotage at work: that this ever-watchful, self-protective part of me simply doesn't like it when I am on a roll and having a good time! Or when it seems that I might be getting somewhere that's going to take me in powerful new directions.

I remember many, many years ago hearing the Rev. Martin L. Smith, an Episcopal priest, retreat leader, author, spiritual director, and former monk, speak of the tendency of our egos to cut short our times of prayer just when we are getting to the heart of the matter. The same kind of pattern appears in all sorts of places in our lives.

With various practices of silent meditation (at which I generally consider myself a bona fide failure), one is counseled to respond to such distractions with compassion (i.e., don't make a big deal about it; don't assume this is a sign of moral weakness deserving shame and punishment). And then to return to the practice you were in the midst of, whether counting your breath, or repeating a mantra, or whatever.

It's not so different when I catch myself capping my pen, opening my laptop, or even getting up from my desk to go find a pair of scissors! The best thing I can do is simply go back to what I was doing before.

Return to my desk. Close the lid of my laptop. Uncap the pen again. Resume writing. And watch for the same thing happening again!

This may sound simple and small, but it feels like a large accomplishment to me. The whole sequence-- noticing, paying attention, recognizing what's going on, laughing gently at myself, returning to my writing-- is an accomplishment, and each of its component parts is one too.

And it all depends on noticing. On paying attention.

And while I may consider myself a failure at silent meditation, I do know how to notice things. For which I am very grateful.

Now, what was I in the midst of doing when I decided to write this post?

"My kind of pastor"

"You're my kind of pastor!" the woman seated to my right said on hearing my story (the short version).

I was one of four women eating lunch at a small square table at the Harraseeket Inn in Freeport, part of a day-long writing workshop sponsored by the Maine Writers and Publishers Alliance. Each of the others had already shared something about their writing projects, some of which were well under way. I was dreading the moment when it would become my turn to speak.

It had been almost a year since I had taken the step of formally "renouncing" my ordination as an Episcopal priest--turned in my badge, so to speak, and hung up my collar and vestments and my right to celebrate the Eucharist (and other assorted privileges of ordination). And while I had always assumed that I'd write some sort of account of this journey, I was still pretty tentative about it.

Not only unsure about just how or what to write, but also a little sheepish about the fact that I'd done this deed at all. Actually, let me be more honest--I was very sheepish. And wary of speaking about it, especially with strangers.

I didn't relish tripping over other people's religious sensibilities, causing undue offense that might wash back on me in . . . what? What was I most afraid of? Condemnation? Horror? Shock? Platitudes? A pious attempt to save me from myself? (Clearly shadows of these responses were lurking within myself.)

In addition to the whole "religion thing"--the fact that my story, though thoroughly individual and personal, was inextricably also a religious story, and religion as we all know is one of those topics one is advised not to raise in polite conversation--I was also a bit sensitive about being asked the usual follow-up question, "So what do you do now?"

(Ah...I could write volumes on that question! That most modern American of questions that seems to want to define a person, or even measure the value of a person, according to what kind of "work" she or he does. And usually by "work" is meant "work for which you get paid." And since I had very little of that kind of work at the time, I  really didn't like being asked that question. Even writing this now, I can feel a growing anxiety and discomfort. This is not a finished topic!)

When it was unavoidably my turn, I gave as succinct a summary as I could summon--something about writing the story of my leaving the Episcopal priesthood after 24 years of ordination. Something about what it was like to start over, nearly clueless.

A few questions followed, of a very positive tone, really. There were affirmative comments around the table--"Oh, I'd like to read that story!" or "You have to write that. What an intriguing journey!" That kind of thing.

And then the woman to my right spoke: "You're my kind of pastor!"

I couldn't believe my ears. Her words went right to my heart. I don't remember if I asked her to say more, or if she continued without prompting.

"A pastor who struggles with faith and religion as I do--and is honest about it--you're my kind of pastor!"

I felt hopeful and grateful beyond measure. For that momentary glimpse and expanded sense of my self and my continuing value as a human being, and even as some sort of pastor--not in spite of but because of what I had chosen to do.

I'd be lying if I didn't admit that I still struggle and wrestle with those same issues--my own tendency to define myself and my value as a human being on the basis of "what I do" and "what I do for which I get paid" rather than by some deeper and richer measure; and a continuing habit of hiding the fact of my formerly ordained status, as if it were something to be ashamed of instead of something that might actually be a gift, not only to me and my family but also to others.

Hmmm. I did not know what this post was going to be about when I started to write it this morning. I just found myself thinking of that woman who became my friend* who said, "You're my kind of pastor!"

*although for a year or more she was part of my life in my memory only as "that woman, Raye Tibbitts, who called me her kind of pastor." I found her again last year on Facebook, and we've traveled on from there.

Bananas for Madame Matisse

I fully intended to post something on Valentine's Day, but I had other tasks, including the making of valentine's, that occupied me instead.

I had set a goal for myself to finish a few paintings-in-process by Valentine's Day, and I made it--just barely! Now I'm able to share them with you.

The first is called Bananas for Madame Matisse. Here's a glimpse of it.

                               Bananas for Madame Matisse,  oil on canvas, © 2011 Sukie Curtis


The direct inspiration for the painting was, believe it or not, a bunch of bananas. But in addition to the bananas themselves, my admiration for a particular painting by Henri Matisse was also at play. It's his painting known as Femme au Chapeau, or Woman with the Hat.  It now belongs to the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art (though their website says it is not currently on view--mon Dieu!). The above link will take you to an image as well as a short article on wikipedia.

Or you can read the basics here: Painted in 1905 in what became known as the "fauvist" style--the term, Fauves, meaning wild beasts, was not intended as a compliment to Matisse and his painting companions of the day--Femme au Chapeau caused quite a stir when it was exhibited at the Paris Salon of 1905. It was the Fauves' astonishing use of color that prompted the remark about the wild beasts.

In any case, as you can see if you open the link above, the woman (thought to be Madame Matisse herself) is wearing quite the hat! It's a little hard to tell what's loaded on top of the hat, but why not imagine some bananas up there? At least that's what I found myself thinking as I painted my own bananas.

I seem to have a "thing" for painting fruits and vegetables. What can I say? I love them--sometimes more to paint than to eat! I enjoy their shapes and colors, their quirks and curves, the patterns they make overlapping one another. And I enjoy playing with those elements when I paint them.

In this particular painting, color was really the primary exploration and source of delight. That, plus the fact that the bananas in the painting are larger than life-size, since they occupy most of a 16x20" canvas. That larger than life size added to the enjoyment and sense of play as I painted.

I suppose I could have named the painting Bananas for Madame Matisse's Hat, but that seemed just a bit too much of a mouthful. (Let me know what you think.)

Now I'm thinking of a series of paintings for Madame Matisse. Next on the list are some lemons, before they become too old to use in cooking!

Blog to Blog 2

Bekah has been busy at her blog, which feels like a friendly nudge to me to do that same!

Here are her two latest posts from Nairobi. The first called "The Bubble Bursts" and the second, "Chizifreshi." You'll have to read the blog to find out what that means! Maybe I'll ask Bekah for a Swahili pronunciation guide. My slim recollection is that it's pretty straightforward--my guess is that chizifreshi would be pronounced "cheezy-freshy." Any Swahili speaker-readers out there?

I love the way my daughters inspire me to do stuff--I played off some of Anna's artistic ideas when I made valentines earlier this week. And now I will let Bekah's blogging activity spur some of my own.