Saturday, March 21, 2015

Turning a Corner

 

I was a part of something small, simple, and beautiful, yesterday. I had gone to the bank for the community and included a swing by the library in my loop homeward. A bonus day for me, I left with a volume apiece from three different series I enjoy. It was brilliantly sunny--a generous, kind, balance to the snowdrifts taller than I am that line the streets and the slush swamps deeper than the ankle that pool at almost every corner.

I was approaching Spring Garden and South Park when I saw a guy I recognized from a coffeeshop I have gone to several times. He has something to do with the music industry. He, in his wheelchair, had an ice spade and was chunking free the frozen expanse at the corner that prevented him from passing easily. I asked if he wanted help. "Sure, if you have a minute! If you could shovel away what I break up, that'd be great." He pointed to a pile of shovels and other tools over by where he'd tossed his jacket.

We were working for some minutes and another guy stopped. "Want a hand?" He spelled the other man with the ice spade.

A woman soon approached. "I've got time. Want help?" She too began to shovel and toss.

Another woman stopped to cross and was watching us.

"You all are the most beautiful thing I have seen in a long time...so much cooperation between people who don't know one another... Thank you. Just...thank you."

I walked the rest of the way home full of thanks for being able to lend a hand, full of thanks for sunshine and the stretch of clear sidewalk beneath my feet, and full of thanks for helping show a woman that at least in one, small, literal, corner of the world, hope is not lost.

 

Sunday, March 15, 2015

I Come by it Honestly

"Attention without feeling...is only a report." --Mary Oliver--

Over the course of my life I have had the chance to read several volumes of my great-grandmother's journals...I read the first one before I was ten when I found it in a box at my grandmother's house and asked if I could read it. I can remember thinking-- "Really??," as I read what she thought to write down. Baking apples, cleaning the wardrobes, washing down the floor, the weather, my great-grandfather's comings and goings and visits with her grandchildren. Not a stray thought or feeling...a reporting of a life lived.

I loved seeing her hand, imagining her with a pen at her writing desk or in her comfortable chair, and piecing together a sense of her busy, manual, days of keeping house and home together for herself and my great grandfather as well as maintaining relationships with the extended family...grandchildren, cousins, etc.

Gift and insight that all of her volumes are, each time I read her words I long for more. I long to know what she was feeling, what she thought about, what the view was like from her kitchen window.

Why did she write? Given the volume of her writing, I'd say it helped her in some way. Was it her way of accounting for her life? Leaving a record of deeds and acts? Did it give her a sense of accomplishment to list her day's activities?

Though I long to know more about her feelings, her curiosities, frustrations, and joys, I don't know that the times and her upbringing would have allowed for that. I come from a fairly tight-lipped stock of people. Your bootstraps are yours to pull up, you do your best, and do your part.

But one thing I do know. My great grandmother chose to write. She chose to leave marks upon a page that offer windows into her world.

I don't wash down the floors as often or dust the wardrobes too frequently...heck, at ALL. But I too write. And I try to do it with a freedom she didn't seem able to enjoy.

I thought afresh about all of this as I wrote in my own journal while perched on the steps of the Farmers Market this past Saturday morning, observing the sea of humanity, munching on a cinnamon bun, and sipping a cup of dark roast...

Writing about a life lived is more than a reporting of deeds...it is paying attention to the in-breaking of God and wonder, the impact of the senses, the fullness of heart that draws me onward. It is honoring this...in ink and typeface.

 

Monday, March 2, 2015

The Write Moment


I can remember pretending my pen was a magic wand when I was a child. I was well aware that I couldn't really make anything disappear or multiply in number, but nonetheless, I had a knowing that what I held was a capable tool and it could make things happen. I felt secure if I had a pen: I could go somewhere else, could connect with a larger world, and always, I had a place to put things and a voice, a way to express myself in my own way, at my own pace.
I express it differently now that I am an adult, but the foundation is shared with my youth as far as why I continue to write, why I continue to feel better if I know that I have at least one pen and a pad of paper with me.
Writing is one way I push back with light when darkness encroaches. Word for me is very much alive and if it is alive, is has being-ness and things that "be" have energy and energy begets light. And, I believe that "light shines in the darkness and darkness will not overcome it."
And that Word shines brightly when I use writing to voice, to summon forth, a truth that lies within me. Perhaps that truth is on a gentle wander and I might not yet be aware of its company, or perhaps it is a truth seeking its own release, a truth needing to be freed so I can either breathe more freely without the burden--a recognized anger, or resentment of old that has mossed over my heart, or embrace it, welcome it, accept it, understand it--and allow it to find its place within me among the other truths that abide in my being.
This might end up looking like a poem or a letter or or a journal. It might read like a story or a prayer or detailed observations of what I sense in a given moment on the space-time continuum...
Whatever the shape it takes, whatever the sound it makes, for me, writing loosens the clench of emotion, confusion, and the sometimes "too muchness," allowing light to flow more freely so that I see more clearly all that surrounds within and without and recognize the face of God.


Saturday, February 28, 2015

Where I am Home

I have had reason of late to think a lot about home...about where I live...about feeling like I fit here...about my lifelong pattern of moving...
 

 

Where I am Home

There are times I want to ask, God,

why you gave me wings if

I am meant to stay and why

you let me love so deeply

if I am to be

called to the edge

of precipice or path, called

to give myself over

to the buoyancy of wonder,

yes, and ah! and on

a flight of so much more than fancy go.

 

Though, in the twining moments

of freely winding grace

I know why I do not ask:

 

The invitation is

neither to stay

nor to go.

 

The call is

to be

at home

in you

The call is

to rise

with the sun

to rest

with the stars

to let your love

move my heart.

 

Kimberly M. King, rscj

 

Tuesday, February 3, 2015

The Hemorrhaging Of Being

statue by Angela Johnson

I have to share a thought about a woman I know well and whom I have never encountered. She is a woman of my own time and part of a story begun long ago. I think of her regularly and have spent today in her company.

There was a woman afflicted with hemorrhages for twelve years...She had heard about Jesus and came up behind him in the crowd and touched his cloak. She said, 'If I but touch his clothes, I shall be cured.' Immediately, her flow of blood dried up. She felt in her body that she was healed of her affliction. Jesus, aware at once that power had gone out from him, turned around in the crowd and asked, 'Who has touched my clothes?' ...The woman, realizing what had happened, approached in fear and trembling. She fell down before Jesus and told him the whole truth. He said to her, 'Daughter, your faith has saved you. Go in peace and be cured of your affliction.' (From today's Gospel--Mark 5:21-43)

The story indicates that this woman was hemorrhaging blood...glory, do I know what that is like. It is awful, embarrassing, immobilizing, and a potentially grave health concern. But on a less literal note, I also think of her as a woman who was losing herself, if blood is the stuff of "being." The symbol of losing blood so freely speaks to me of a woman who is wounded, whose self is fading, whose spiritual being is wasting away via old wounds that no one as yet has been able to heal. I know something of that too.

But she made a choice. She did not let go completely, or allow the final threads to fray.

The woman believed that touch would heal her, intimate encounter with God, would heal her... And Jesus knew when someone sought him for fear of losing herself. To her, his power went out and he felt it. She was losing herself, her being, and reached for Jesus--a connect, a touch, that becomes an encounter of healing and of reconciliation. The touch becomes a prayer of salvation. The woman is drawn back to herself, made whole, and again able to embody her "being-ness."

I can not help but recall the friend who held me when I had few words to explain a difficult situation in high school, the hands that have laid themselves upon my head when I have sought the sacrament of reconciliation...my rscj sister who tethered me to the here and now by keeping her hand on my arm when I was coming out of anesthesia...the massage after surgery...and again years later after returning from tearing my ACL..the friend who listens, who looks with love, who asks questions or is quiet...who offers a shoulder, a hand... so many times...

I can not help but recall the people who allowed my reach and who have touched me in holy welcome...

Like the knowing welcome of Jesus...who stays with and does not leave...who does not chastise reaching out but feels it for what it is at its most aching core: a pushing back against the darkness of despair and loss of being-ness, a cry of re-membering and healing, a desire for encounter where what is most fully human meets what is most gloriously divine and we are recognized, honored, held in love, and sent forth anew.

 

 

Friday, January 30, 2015

Celebrating Grace

7:19 AM

I am in the rocker at the window with a glorious mug of caffeinated goodness...the proportions fell just so and settled into a fullness beyond the average...A nice morning for that to have happened, too--today is the fourth anniversary of my final vows.

And here I am, celebrating this life in Canada...who'd have known? When I think of all that has happened since then...how that moment--or period--was a time of conversion and coming together and moving forward all wrapped up into your absolute grace... Thank you for that. Thank you for This.

Four years ago, I made "final vows"--but now, as I look back and look in a mirror and look ahead, it could be that they weren't "final" in the conventional sense...but rather a lifelong commitment to Beginning. Beginning with Yes. Beginning where I am with the cumulation of experiences that have brought me there. Beginning, setting out, open and free and curious. Beginning, attentive and 'lista' (ready and intelligent)... Beginning kindly, with compassion and understanding and "alegria profunda" (deep joy)...open to my own humanity and responding to what and to whom I encounter as you would have me and inspire me to respond...

Beginning while promising to follow Jesus Christ more closely in the Society of the Sacred Heart... Vowed to simplicity...vowed to "...letting go enough, loosening until/ it no longer matters or is possible to know/ spark from fire from sunrise/ and whether the glow is inside or out." (from Chastity Oct. 2010) Vowed to "love that frees me and compels me/ to choose you again and yet again.../ that I might respond as I wish to respond.../ openly, knowingly, even a little mysteriously.../ as the bush in the desert responded to flame." (from Obedience, published in The Review for Religious, January 2012.)

The commitment is with my life and with my sisters and with the people of God...the living of it is ever new, ever alive, with each rising sun. The commitment is with you and to you and grace upon grace, world without end. Amen.

 

Monday, January 12, 2015

Extraordinary Measures

The Measure of Extraordinary

 

Must I settle for only sipping

at the depth of the poured coffee

quotidian adventure of life?

Must I die my last death before

walking the ribbon of wonder

you weave throughout my days?

What restraint must I show? What awe

not proclaim, what passion temper

for the nearness of you?

Or, may I say simply as I stir to blend

your revelations in my years,

and I marvel in no small measure,

and have to put down my pen,

because even that, even

that, feels entirely close,

"This life you have offered

is extraordinary?"

What say you?

 

Move with me, let me

speak through you, let me listen

through you, labor through you...

and as you allow me in, I

will be the strength you need, I

will be your courage, I will

bear the grace with you and the hurt

with you--because what I offer and what I ask

will ache within you and

free you.

It will be glorious and beautiful and messy

and draw you close to the edge.

Go there, if you will...

That is extraordinary, my love...

and there is where we meet.

 

--Kimberly M. King, rscj---