As part of my Lenten journey this year, I am attending a weekly Lectio Divina group at the Basilica of Saint Mary — then painting and writing impressions from my meditations.  The Gospel for Week 1 is Mark 1:12 - 15.

"And immediately the spirit drives Him into the wilderness —"

The words that follow are not unfamiliar.  Satan.  Dryness.  Wild beasts.

Forty days.

And forty nights.

Who would sign up for this?

Well, not me — 

Not without —

Being driven by the spirit.

The loving spirit that is stronger than any excuse, contingency or exception living in me.  The holy spirit that somehow makes the desert and its dark unseen crevices and creatures —

Irresistable.

And even —

Embraceable.

Not in an attractive or comfortable or desirous manner, but — 

As a necessary act of balance.  As a vital agreement I enter into believing it serves me to lose sight of myself.  That consenting to some amount of shivering without knowing where or when or how the warm blanket will appear and minister to me is a passage I cannot refuse.  

And yet, I continue to ask.

"How long?  How cold?  How far?  How empty?  

"Can I get a preview?  What is the payoff?  Will I like it there?  

"What's the ROI?"

And —

God answers me —

"Why do you cling so to limits?"

Aha!

"This time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God is at hand —"

A kingdom without limits, beyond my wildest imagination.

How do you go into the wilderness?  With reservation and hesitation, or willingness and surrender?  What are the contingencies and excuses you wish to let go and lose sight of?  How will you empty yourself to be filled with the promise of God's kingdom?

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The beauty in a heart torn is more than what remains to —

Beat on.

It is the also and more so in the spacious mysterious openings —

The tender gouges through which the soul can  —

Breathe freely.

The torn heart series came from my playing around with making Valentines in 2011.  I started with a pile of old art and fashion magazines and some dried sage and rose petals.  Then a couple of stray pieces of watercolor paper presented themselves and I reached for the Aleene’s Original Tacky Glue.  While ripping interesting shapes from images that caught my eye, I was aware that I was dismantling and disrupting the careful art direction of another creative soul.  The torn edges that started to arrange themselves on the canvas reminded me of the places where human hearts might be broken.  

Some hairline fractures.  Others more gaping in nature.  Still more — overlapping and scar like.

The metaphor started to take form.

In 2012, I was invited to write something for the Lenten season about “brokenness.”

Before putting pen to paper, I reached again for the Aleene’s and the old magazines.

This time the message went deeper as my eyes were drawn to chains, lace and baubles interwoven with human anatomy.  With every inspired shred and glue down, the divine seemed to announce—

“You may think the objective of life is to seal up your containers so tight that nothing can ever disrupt them — but I will pierce them one by one like the hands and feet of Christ.  Only then will you know the brilliant meaning of this life I have planned for you.”

Each of my torn hearts helps me see the luminosity that exists in my own life today where God broke the seal —

And I was torn free —

Opened, made accessible —

And then slowly —

With His grace and the grace of others He put in my life —

Helped to heal.

When have you experienced the light that can shine through your brokenness?  How is God more present to you when you are broken than when you are trying to "keep a lid on it"?

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When the ground beneath our feet — or the proverbial bird in the hand —

No longer serve their purposes —

There is —

A time to leap.

A time to jump quickly, suddenly and eagerly —

Into unknown territory, waters or skies.

We move.

Simply and elegantly in the direction of our yearnings.

We move.

With visible, exaggerated, exhuberant staggers on and about the unfamiliar.

And in our movement away from what we think we know —  Or think we see —  Or think —

We are —

We naturally find —

Our way.  

Yesterday I found a new way around the lake.

I crossed it.

Well — to be more accurate — I should say "we" crossed it.  

Stella and I stepped boldly off the beaten path —

And onto the icy way forward.

We slip-slided and inched our way forward at first, me in the lead —

Barely steady enough to both put one foot in front of the other and —

Look behind me in the direction of my reluctant, but ever-faithful companion.

It only took a few minutes for her to join me where she walked gingerly with me for just seconds—

Before —

Leaping headlong into the experience —

Dragging me behind her — 

Unleashing in me an embodied awareness of my fear of losing control.  

Up came my huge insistence to be "in charge" on this sheet of potential danger.  Up came my resistance to trusting her with "too much power" while my own footing was so unsure — so fragile.

For a moment, I froze.

Then I invited myself to let the fear of falling —

Thaw in myself.

Bladeless — and yet relaxed —

We wrote our way effortlessly, poetically, to the other side.

What have the icy sheets in your life helped you embrace and learn about yourself?  Can you recall a time when you were pushed without your consent over an edge you resisted?  How did you find your balance?  Would you leap next time you come to this edge?

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 "I need a silent night," the radio sings —

And my heart nods in full agreement.

Tonight.

Yes, tonight —

On the longest night of the year —

Beneath a thick cover of darkness —

Immersed in rich, inky mystery.

I wish —

Upon a star.

Will you join me?

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The sun beats hard on her black coat, bringing out magenta hues.  

A shy blue sky tucks itself behind the bold, brilliant, ragged-rimmed —

Falling —

Foreground. 

And it's me that stops to sniff.  

Summer leaving scents the balmy air with rich, well-lived notes.  My senses fill and flow —

Flit back and forth between golden sacred moments on the paths I've walked.

It's four o'clock in the afternoon and I don't know yet that Steve Jobs has passed.

I finish my work and feed my faithful dog.  A friend stops by to talk plans for a birthday party.  We visit our neighborhood pub.  Order glasses of wine.  I am 25 years old and in love.  The burger is done perfectly. 

Ice cream.

Of course.

And then.

I sit —

I sit before my magnificent apple.

And, I am —

Amazed.

Who and what amazes you?  How deep does your amazement go and how do you express it?  Can you discern between a life lived being amazed and one lived trying to be amazing?  How does Steve Jobs inspire you?

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I'm aware that I'm also more and more at ease with the belief that I possess absolutely —

Nothing.

And for this, I am exceptionally —

Grateful.

It's an answered prayer, really.

"Work through me, Lord," I pray daily, tagging my request with:

"Your will —

"Not mine."

I'm not saying I never get grabby, trigger happy —

Or just plain forget who is in charge here.

And yet—

As I ask and listen with more intention, I seem to find endless examples of magnificently-timed sacred departures and arrivals everywhere I turn.

The majestic head of the towering sunflower I nurtured from a single seed begins its descent and I feel a tinge of sadness.  

But then—

I notice a fresh new face —

Peering coyly over its shoulder.

It smiles back at me and breaks me open —

As only that which I do not control or possess can do.

Nature, the great teacher.

The patient reminder.

Are you aware of how you cultivate and embrace divine timing in your life?  Does viewing life's gifts as "loans" prosper your life today? 

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If what you need is an answer —

You can get one —

Go ahead and make one —

Or take one.

Because really, any will do — if resolving the question as soon as possible is of the utmost importance.

But —

If you want to know the truth —

If you want to be certain in your heart of hearts —

Then you must agree to some amount of waiting and seeing.

A time of testing —

Playing it out —

And living in a state of —

Faith.

Today I allow myself to feel "I don't know" without rushing any conclusions.  I allow myself to gaze into the mysterious horizon passively —

Without acting upon anything. 

I allow myself to leave the sentence unfinished.

For now.

Because.

I don't know.

Yet.

To do or say nothing is often the most effective, graceful move.  But it's easy to get drawn into a habit of measuring our worth in terms of the number of things we "check off" or resolve each day.  Where could your life and your relationships be served by being more wisely passive?  How will you allow yourself to wait alertly — and receive the blessed surprise you did nothing to "earn"?

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To sit on my hands in silence and take my cues from events outside of myself —

Listen intently —

Perhaps even nod my head —

Neither one way —

Or the other.

Chiming in, from time to time, with an uncommitted —

"Hmmmm."

Quite safe as far as postures go —

Wouldn't you agree?

Some might even call it —

Remaining open.  Flexible.  Ready for —

Anything.

Yes.  

But.

It can also be limiting.  

To myself.  My relationships.  And the greater good of —

Any unfolding endeavor. 

When I refuse to add my voice —

There's no chance for harmonization.  No chance for a greater-than-the-sum-of-its-parts outcome.  

And a high probability that my own growth will be stunted, bent passively under the emerging agenda's growing shadow.

Sure, there are also risks with speaking up and taking a position.

Maybe the notes I contribute will be a bit too sharp for the conductor's ear and I'll be tossed out of the orchestra.  

But it's also just as likely that I could strike the galvanizing chord without knowing it  —

Or that —

In the harmonization process, I could find myself happily —

Changing my own tune.

Whatever the outcome, I win.  

I move forward together —

Or in search of the next set of partners.

But always with —

A strong and clear song in my heart.

Can you think of times when you perhaps prevented a relationship or situation from reaching its full potential because you refused to add your voice?  Do you know why?  What will you do to get clear, be heard — and attract the right partners and opportunities to your "heart songs"?

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The quintessential stub of the toe —

At the very same place in the sequence —

Every single time we run the pattern.

And still.

We keep running it.  Keep hitting the snag.  Keep thinking —

This time it will be different.

And then —

Well —

It's not.

So — 

What?  

What, exactly, are we to do with this impediment? 

Just keep it?  Embrace it?  Allow it?  

Say, "I mean to do that" and make it cool?

Perhaps, yes —

If it truly cannot be overcome.

But then.

How many things truly, truly fit this bill?

I am finding the answer — when it comes to me and my perceived limitations — to be:

Very few.

I am also finding —

When I have the heart to stub my toe in community —

In the company of people who support the changes I want to make —

People who will watch with care, break down my moves, give me honest feedback and encourage me to try again —

Without thinking, without judging, without expecting perfection —

People who will look me in the eye and say —

"Just be fabulous."

Well, then —what do you know?

I am.

Is there a limitation you want to get past rather than letting it drag you down and hold you back?  Are you ready to bring this into community?  How will you open yourself up to finding the right community, teacher or coach? 

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But, today —

Waking to dark skies, dense air and T minus one to debt d-day —

I am discovering it with a new heart.

I must be the peace I seek —

No matter what.

This is level five peace behavior.

Kind eyes.

Loving thoughts.

Sincere smile.

Humility and grace.

No matter what.

Sans the scent of lavender and absent a heartfelt namasté from the other guy.  

In the face of what we may perceive as rude or inconsiderate or downright stinky.

When we're being ignored.  Dismissed.

Even attacked.  

With every breath and every step, we can choose peace.

Or not.

Moment by moment, there are things that happen, or don't happen —

Things that are said, or not said —

That can easily justify any one of a large array of negative emotions or reactions.  

The elevator, grocery store, parking lot, inbox or —

Fill in the blank.

If I want to feel misery or express anger, frustration or utter despair — I don't have to look beyond my own big toe.

I can easily find a million little ways to spend my energy down.

But, I pray to be aware that I always have an option to —

Buy up.  

Even in darkness, I can choose to —

Keep it light.

Do you remember the last time you experienced a bad turn?  What was your response?  Did you choose peace? 

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There are occasions in life when all we want to do is —

Shrink back.

Fade into the background.

Sneak out of the room.

Pull the covers over our head and pretend we didn't hear —

It isn't what we think or it isn't that bad or —

Surely this will —

Pass. 

Something's coming at us too fast, too slow, sideways or maybe even —

Right between our eyes.   

"Why me?  Why now?," we moan.

And then —

In the midst of all our dodging and ducking and doubling over in doubt, we stop in our well-heeled tracks.

We stop.

Listen to the stillness.

Breathe in.  Breathe out.

And rise to it.

We meet the moment, look it squarely in the eyes and give it an honest answer.

The answer might be "I'll pass" —

Or it might be a giant step up to the plate.

Whether it's yes or no, we have risen.

We have played our sacred parts in the unfolding mystery of life.

Is there anything you are reluctant to rise to in your life today?  Are you holding back because you think you have to step up, but you don't want to?  Can you let yourself meet the moment honestly and decline with ease?  If not, why not?

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Red, white and blue —

Draped, waved and worn —

From curb to shining curb.  

Thousands of community constellations —

Band members blaring overtures, politicians on platforms, and people picnicking in parks —

United at dusk in dazzling deafening displays above the earth's Northern Hemisphere.

United in eternity under God —

By our love for —

And commitment to —

Freedom.

We are free people in a free country.

And yet —

Many of us struggle to feel truly free in our everyday personal and professional lives.  

I know I do. 

I wrestle with —

Resource constraints.  Tight turnarounds.  Uncooperative equipment.  Unkind conditions.  Dead bolted decisions.  Itchy trigger fingers —  

Too much noise.

Yes, I often feel locked down by life in the fast lane as we know it today.

But gratefully —

I still have choices!

I can take liberty back —

If I am willing to pay the price.  That price may be as innocuous as a few ruffled feathers, or as stiff as the loss of significant income.  But the choice remains mine.  I can —

Pause.  Redirect.  Disconnect.  Reinvent.  Ask for a favor.  Say yes, or —

Say no.  

Let it go.

All the levers for the freedom I experience in my life are in my hands —

And when I use my heart —

I know just how to play them.

Where do you need to take liberty back in your life?  Are you ready to pay the price?  If not now — when?

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It hides and sneaks —

Peeks through, teases, invites — and then —

Gradually, or maybe abruptly —

It's gone.

And — 

It's easy to feel —

Faked out.  Fooled.  Left in the dark. 

Angry.  Abandoned.

Alone.

But this is all illusion.  

The nature of light — I remind myself in this particularly gloomy stretch of June in Minnesota —

Is its faithfulness.

It's always present.  Always working its miracles.

And yes, we may go to the window with high hopes —

Only to open the drapes to more —

Drear. 

And we may shed painful gallons of tears because we cannot see or touch what we wish with all our might to see and touch.

But if we open the door to mystery — allow mystery to gently move in and sit quietly beside us —

We will eventually see — another way.

In the words of Helen Keller —

"The best and most beautiful things in this world cannot be seen.  Or even touched.  They must be felt —

"With the heart."

Take heart.  

Where and how do you welcome mystery in your everyday life?  Is there an experience you can recall that challenged you, but ultimately helped you develop new ways to see in the dark?  

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I like order.  

Trust me.  

The underpinnings of my daily routine border on rain-man-ritualistic.

Sequencing, labeling, filing and categorizing —

List making, fact checking, laying out and —

5 - 6 - 7 - 8 —

Staging.

I create order — maybe even compulsively —

To prepare to receive, with grace —

What I don't order.

And these days — whether it's my age, experience, or some form of enlightenment arriving with tonight's full moon lunar eclipse —

"Not what I ordered" is taking on an allure I never imagined it could possess.

The delightful discovery in the detour.  

The perfect pattern in an unplanned stroke.  

The healing after a sincere apology —

The proverbial rainbow after the rain.

Oh, I know it's not "all good."

Toilets overflow, dogs vomit, tornadoes hurl— and people get cancer.

But the divine spew that carries disease and disaster also holds the miraculous potential to be everything we hope for —

And more.

If we can learn to trust in —

An order higher than —

Our own.

How does receiving something you didn't order tend to make you feel?  Are you aware of holding on or insisting when it might be time to allow a higher order to take over?  Are you open to taking the good with the bad?  What do you want to let go of today?

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When we truly serve, we bend —

Voluntarily — 

And gladly —

In the direction of need.

Whether simple request or desperate cry —

In the decision to respond, we shift our energy away from ourselves and —

Toward another.

We give —

A holy offering, on bended knee.

And yet.

I've found if I bend too far in one direction — if I lose my own heart center in the effort —

I collapse.

The full weight of my ego topples me, getting everyone in my path —

Dreadfully wet.  

The missing ingredient, my yoga practice informed me, is —

Balance. 

To keep my balance, I must bend and stretch —

At the same time.

In opposite directions.

I bend to meet a need here on earth — and simultaneously, I stretch —

Heavenward.

The deeper I bend, the higher I reach — contacting and drawing on the wisdom of —

The ultimate light.  

And all is well.

Can you recall a time when you extended yourself so far you fell over?  Is the fear of not being able to keep your balance standing between you and your heart's desires?  How might the practice of bending and stretching apply to your life today?

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The blank canvas waits.  

I contemplate.  Ask a few questions.  Make a little study.  Mix an initial palette.  Grab a brush.  Dab it with color —

And then —

I begin.  

I begin with one stroke.

And that one stroke — whether creeky or elegant —

Changes the entire picture.

Informs the next stroke.  Invites the second color.  And before I know it —

Surprises me with a view of the world that did not exist until this very moment.

Whether I am delighted or disappointed, it matters not. 

I didn't just dream it —

I did it.

And I can do it again.  Another day.  Another way.

With one stroke, I can always say —

Yes.

It's challenging to see the "blank canvases" in full lives and established relationships, but they are always present.  How could a bold stroke in earnest transform your world today?  Will you begin it now?  

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And be held.

These are among life's most holy acts, gifts —

Pleasures.

Heart to heart and tiny lips to tender bud, we are beheld with our first breath.  

And we behold —

Then grasp and gaze and coo and howl —

To be held —

Again.

And with each spring, we grow.

Each of us stronger, taller — becoming our own big blue horizons and towering pink torches of life.  Each of us changing — once the observer, now the climber.  Once the seeker, now the protector.

We allow ourselves and each other healthy distances and the room to grow.  

And still —

With all our hearts, we behold —

And are beheld.  

What and who do you behold today?  How are you allowing yourself and others to change and still be held?

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So I open the pretty packets and liberate the tiny feathers of dark dry has-blooms to —

Become —

Again.

With hopeful finger tips, I push them gently into the soil of my longing and —

Tuck them in with faith.  

Then water —

And wait.   

On day three I decide to take a peek.  

But an urban rat beats me to it.

Dirt and dreams of soaring zinnias disturbed, I water again and wait while hedging my bets with an old grade school trick — a second packet of seeds in a row of promising paper cups on the window sill —

Inside.  

With this, I can't help thinking about how important it is to pair discernment with faith — especially when it comes to our sacred intentions.  The mystery of growth — whether it is self-awareness or a relationship between two hearts — involves both light and dark, roots and shoots, stillness and movement, hanging on and —

Letting go.

Some of what happens is out of our control — and wondrously so!  

But a fair amount can be influenced by our attitudes, actions — and intentional presence.  We can bring our sacred seeds inside until they can keep the squirrels away on their own.  We can improve our soil conditions and create healthy space between our roots and the roots of others in our pots.  We can stretch for the light together — 

Until it's time to bloom again.

What are the sacred seeds in your life today?  Do you feel like you are giving them the best conditions possible to bloom?  If not, what will you do differently to nurture them? 

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Fresh-cut blooms — especially against a vast backdrop of bareness — are guaranteed to lift anyone's spirits.

Add to this —

Endless spreads of useful, imaginative, honest containers — shaped by inspired human hands and placed in the loving arms of the St. Croix River Valley on the first really-feels-like-spring day in Minnesota —

And —

Hearts soar.

With my feet planted firmly in the rich, moist, dark soil of my thoughts —

Mine went to the moon.

How is earthen-awareness working to restore and renew your life right now?  What do you notice about the way your relationship with nature guides your relationships with people?

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