Being With

Posted on July 7, 2014 by harasprice

I started musing on the theme of “being with” on small points of light a few days ago, as I reflected on my recent time at the Wild Goose Festival. My thoughts were jarred listening to Sara Miles give a talk, as I sat with my tween daughter. I was unable to fix the worries she had raised to me earlier that day, nor to resolve the unsettledness in my own spirit having heard and taken in what she had shared with me. All I could do was be with her, and she with me, as we navigated the changes and chances of life together.

Although I don’t have the text of her talk, you can get the general idea of the content by reading this post from Sara Miles. What struck me was how her portrayal of “with” as a theological construct mirrors the talks I give in my own academic circles about community based participatory research (CBPR) as an ideological and methodological construct. I fully embrace CBPR in my academic scholarship. I have invested my own energy in conducting research, writing, and teaching research methods which facilitate partnerships with community. I do not conduct research “on” or “for” or “to.” I research with. It is hard work, it takes a long time…and it changes everyone, including me. Just like ministry. Just like God. As I sat, listening, I could feel my vocational paths being with each other, too.

This theme of “being with” has permeated my soul and remains with me. As I contemplate this theme, two simple moments of “being with” stand out as illustrations, offering small points of light for the journey:

Being With: Giving to Receive

My daughter was three months old the first time I packed her up into my car and drove the 2 1/2 hours south from our comfortable house in a mid-west city into the rural community where I housed the Women’s Wellness Initiative. My vision, when this project began, was to offer a resource of mental health support to women residing in one of the poorest and resource scarce regions of the United States. I quickly learned the year prior that I wasn’t going to accomplish a damn thing trying to do something “for” these women. As a doctoral student, I was learning a lesson that was far more valuable: how to engage with individuals and community to co-create change. So, I scrapped my prior research, abandoned all hope of this project leading to a dissertation (I found other data and other questions for that) and began the process of setting off in a new direction to learn how to research with.

Arriving at the community center, I situated my daughter in a cloth sling around my business attire and filtered in to this room of community leaders I had not met in person before. They knew each other, and they knew people who knew people who knew me. They were willing to give this a shot: to help co-create a program supporting new mothers. And here I was…a new mother, just like them. Maybe that should have occurred to me, but it didn’t. I just didn’t have a sitter for the length of this day, and I was trying to keep breast feeding, and I wasn’t ready to let my baby out of my sight. Again, as I should have realized, just like every person there. What I met when I walked in was a room full of women who immediately wanted to meet the bundle of baby I carried…and then maybe, perhaps, me. Within five minutes someone whom I didn’t even know wanted to hold her, and subsequently took her off into the crowd to meet all the other expectant and new moms. I felt maternal detachment ripping through me like a knife. And yet, I chose trust.

Then, something happened. Someone else showed me their precious little baby, and another woman began to ask questions about infant care. Someone else shared her stories of loss, and how much faith it took for her to try to get pregnant again. Toddlers played with the sling I was wearing and we compared notes on how we managed sleepless nights. I hadn’t even passed out an agenda, or explained who I was. We were simply being with…these other new moms and I…being with our common challenges and joys and fears. That first day, where my traditional research mentoring would suggest we accomplished nothing, was the day I accomplished everything. I learned the value of being with.

Being With: Receiving to Give

A few weeks ago, at Wild Goose, I had gone from a mountaintop of joy to feeling defeated and depleted. I started my morning sitting in the back of the crowd at the main stage, keeping myself in the shade and at what I thought was a safe distance from the evangelical preacher on the agenda. Intellectually, I know that spirituality and faith are expressed in many forms. But, spirtually, I am still recovering from a painful past. I found myself trying to hide the tears that were welling up. My throat had started to close off from pent up emotion as I tried to be present…but ended up suffering…through the preacher’s passionate sermon and alter call. I was right with his content…a call to justice, the use of power to overcome oppression. But, the re-experience of this charismatic delivery was oppressing me, raising old baggage and internal messages from the spiritual pain inflicted on me in my own childhood. I was sitting alone, trying to focus cognitively on the knowledge that others were moved, inspired, and fulfilled by the message and the messenger. But, that was not the case for me. I realized that even among a group of people that I had earlier described as “my tribe” I was not feeling at home. Far, far from it. The cracks of my brokenness were palpable as the inner child in me recoiled unconsciously. I finally walked away, seizing the opportunity to leave and collect myself at the peaceful flow of a river, the rising of morning fog that gave me time to be still, to breathe, to feel unconditional belovedness at the core of my soul again. I had come back to the group just in time for closing Eucharist, but I knew I was fragile, at best.

I stood at the edge of the crowd, my eyes and throat still burning, and began to say the familiar and comforting words opening Holy Eucharist. I sang a response and heard a lovely voice beside me. I turned to smile at an older woman, worshipping alone. She held out her hand, and I happily joined my hand with hers as my partner in worship. We joined with each other in voice, in prayer, in communion. Others joined with us, too. The palpable healing of that “worship with” was a divine gift, a simple but powerful healing moment that reflected God with us, God with me: patient, persistent, unconditional. All from the simple gift of an outstretched hand, an invitation to worship with, received with an open heart into which light could pour freely through the cracks of my brokenness. I was reminded how valuable the gifts of healing are, and in what simple forms this gift presents itself when our hearts are open, when we are willing to receive the gift of being with.

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Road Trip

Posted on July 5, 2014 by harasprice

My family and I have been on the road this holiday weekend, and I am gearing up for our 13 hour drive back home tomorrow. The road trip has become a way of life for us, after relocating several states away from both sides of our extended families. This time, we have been on the midwest circuit of family and friends, catching up on the ins and outs of daily life and taking in the growth spurts of our children. The time has been relaxed; road trips to places you have lived previously are not for tourism or sightseeing. They are best experienced, in my opinion, as times to arrive and be present and reconnect. I am truly grateful we have been able to do exactly that.

But tonight, I am thinking about the road trip itself.

My first road trips were our family’s summer vacations in a small, pull-along camper. I don’t know how we fit…there was barely enough room for three of us to stand up at once. My father always drove, and my mother always painstakingly navigated those pre-GPS days where the AAA travel guide was of epic importance. I was young, and we would flop a mattress onto the floor of the van and I would ride there with my dolls and animals (I am never quite sure how we survived the 1970’s with our safety violations!). But, I couldn’t sleep for the sheer joy of catching the signs marking states through which we would travel, or seeing mountains or a new landscape for the first time. Road trips still hold that fascination for me, and the expanse of road and sky and scenery keep me both focused, and simultaneously adrift in my thoughts.

On our family road trips now, my spouse and I tend to switch off driving. We have a few rules and rituals that have emerged. First, there are the ritual Panera breakfast stopping points in each direction. Then, there are the characteristic landmarks along the way at which we all take note, and check our progress. Most importantly, we have an unwritten rule that being behind the wheel earns control of the music selection in the car; passengers not appreciating the driver’s selection are free to wear earplugs or headphones and tune in to their own devices. I have a steady line up of show tunes and female singer-songwriters awaiting my shift. I drive, and I listen. This year, I also realized that road trips are yet another time when I seem particularly attuned to Divine Presence.

Road trips, especially those along familiar stretches of highway where I have lived, are like a labyrinth weaving a pilgrimage throughout my life. I have travelled these roads in multiple directions, journeying to places in anticipation and in reflection. At times, I double back along familiar sections, and on others I realize a moment of truth and newness, or I take in a sight that has gone previously unnoticed. Small points of light appear in fragments of memory, or glimpses of inspiration. Driving here, I had flashes of past experience that took on a new meaning, and I even had a glimpse of a new twist on something familiar that I allowed to play out in my mind as a way to blend my vocational paths in the near future. Although road weariness does inevitably begin to take a toll after a while, a road trip that goes well never seems quite as long to me as the hours that pass on the clock. I am grateful when that is the experience (and I try to be patient and hopeful when it isn’t.)

So, early tomorrow morning I will head back East with some coffee and music and family vacation memories. My mind will wander (especially in the passenger’s seat) and when I am driving, I will sing to my Rent soundtrack or perhaps some Dar Williams and make my daughter groan in the back seat as she turns up her iPod playlist. Maybe I will gain some new inspiration, or relive an old memory. Or two, or three. What I do know for certain is that our Sunday drive back toward home will have small points of light abounding, with each curve along prairie roads and mountain passageways marking our spiraling passage through this asphalt labyrinth that is part of our journey of life.

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Faith Mark

Posted on July 2, 2014 by harasprice

… a belated Wild Goose adventure…

My tween daughter was a bit bedraggled at Wild Goose, partly due to the rain and partly due to not quite fitting in with either the “kids” or the “youth.” We had some memorable moments, I must admit. Some shall remain in the domain of mother-daughter conversation, but others were more observable. One of my personal favorite images I retain is of the two of us perching on a pair or rocks, eating kettle corn for lunch while I listened to an amazing talk by Sara Miles on the centrality of being “with.” While I was applying that concept to my vocational ministry at the time I was listening, it has since occurred to me that our mother/daughter dyad was living out the spirit of those words, each of us sharing common ground doing the thing we most wanted (listening/snacking) and choosing to do it together. Being “with” meant meeting each other exactly where we were each at…what a gift.

I was also “with” my own faith community, “with” the random yet connected strangers with whom I shared Compline and Eucharist, “with” spiritual directors and “with” others who prayed for me and for whom I prayed. I was “with” my own history, too…the beautiful and the challenging moments of a faith journey that has meandered and a path that continues to emerge. Questions, not certainty, mark my faith journey. Questions were with us, abounding, embracing, challenging. When all the barriers of daily life come down, our spirits connect without lines of division and we can accept the grace of simply being present. Embracing that beautiful diversity of my companion goose chasers was also the spirit of being “with.”

One of the other fine moments of the weekend was seeing my daughter run down to another talk I was attending to find me, pulling me (literally) into the “Faith Marks” art exhibit to have my tattoo photographed. Considering that most of the things I do (or am) are “not cool” in her eyes these days, I apparently score for having a tattoo. I have written about my Triquetra knot recently here, but it was admittedly fun to be photographed in the midst of my weekend of Wild Goose chasing and to be able to share the story of my faith mark on their web gallery as well. Here is a link (and check out all the other great ink on their site, too!)

http://www.ourfaithmarks.com/images_wg7.html

Now, a few days out from the weekend and after a great deal of processing and thought, I realize that Wild Goose was itself a faith mark for me. It has been so challenging to learn to live my faith “out loud” and to build accessibility, authenticity, and comfort with the winding path of my faith journey. Claiming who we are requires us to revisit the path we have travelled. The weekend had many challenges and many rewards, some of which are only now becoming apparent as I reflect. But, like my tattooed faith mark, they are part of me. My faith mark symbolizes my journey, and its winding and interwoven threads of an infinite divine presence that has been with me all along the journey, throughout this meandering daily path we call life.

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Earth Speaks

Posted on June 30, 2014 by harasprice

I was able to engage in a bit of creative writing at Wild Goose. This was a 10 minute free-write using the biblical creation narrative, from the perspective of any person or thing connected with it. I chose “earth.” The only prompt was to begin, “I am …… ”

I am the earth. Roots have pierced my surface, reaching down for nourishment and water. Feet, the small and the large have been prancing on me, dancing and stomping, digging and scratching, and sometimes burrowing. I am a home to the resting products of creation who use me for slumber. I am the ground on which the snake slithers and over which the waters move. The great immensity that spun me into being still moves on my surfaces and I grow deeper, and more complex. I am that which cannot be tamed.

The snake slithered against me last night, as spirit moved in the soft stillness, and I could feel my waters rise with the pull of the moon. Divine harmony; I know it well in this place that others are calling paradise. But I have been around long enough to know the great void, the expanse of nothing. Now, the complexity of growth winds it’s narrative into my children, the trees. Even their fruits speak out. The snake plots against the great immensity, and finds a willing companion just as much in need and desire for love and attention.

But earth remains….under their feet, and offering up the soil to till their labors. This is the ground on which their longing will populate the surface. The heavens and the earth will bear witness to this saga unfolding, when the taste of fruit that is born from my soil and ripened with sun will give them a hint of the divine order…and divine chaos…which will become this thing that they call life.

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Our Tribe

Posted on June 30, 2014 by harasprice

As one might suspect…no WiFi at Wild Goose. So, tonight I play “catch up” with my written reflections, now that I have returned to civilization.

Friday, June 27

Our mini-van of carpooling children and adults pulled into Wild Goose with a shout of joy. The ride was smooth, Biscuitville offered a delightful satisfying breakfast, and conversation was inspired. But, the first glimpse of the opening day small point of light came for me when someone pointed out, “this is our tribe.”

Yes, yes it is.

My daughter and I went strolling, taking note of the quotes and signs by campsites. She was dressed in tween hipster gear, fedora and multiple necklaces with moons, peace signs, ruins, a cross and a peace dove. I never leave the house myself without putting a labyrinth, a piece of Celtic knot work, or a cross around my own neckline. So, I understand. We said hellos, stopped to read tent signs, took in all the happy enthusiasm of set up.

I felt inspired to write an opening poem this first night at the goose:

My tribe was arriving
In mini-vans and cars with crammed full hatches
Early birds all set up, hanging their welcome signs
And some of us piling in, finding our space of ground.

My daughter and I walked, saying hellos
Her hipster tween-ness of black skirts and Converse
With jangling necklaces of runes, doves, and moons
And my own labyrinth around my neck, marking my every step.

“This is my tribe”

Yes, without a doubt we are all connected
My tribe of questions, doubters, seekers and geese.
Those of whom who liberate this weekend,
The spirit of justice pulsing in our veins.

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Goose Chase

Posted on June 25, 2014 by harasprice

Just ask anyone in my family: as a rule, I don’t like geese. My spouse has watched, laughing hysterically, as a goose chased me across a park in St. Louis and, as I describe it, tried to peck my eyes out. OK, so maybe it was just squawking loudly in the direction of my face. But, seeing goose tongue and teeth does make a memorable and lasting impression. Over the years, my daughter has jokingly teased me whenever we have a goose siting, “Mom…look…it’s going to chase you!”

While I don’t actually have goose phobia, I admittedly have a general dislike for the squawking, long-neck water fowl. This began during the summer I worked as a camp counselor in upstate New York. A gaggle of Canadian Geese found their way onto the small lake around which our camp was built. In one long weekend of indulgence, they feasted all day and excreted all night. I drew the short straw in the counselor lottery (literally) and it was my job to scoop all the goose poop from the front yard of the dining hall. I filled three huge lawn trash barrels with goose excrement that day. So, I think I have a right to hold a bit of a grudge.

And yet, here I am, less than 24 hours from a total camped-out weekend immersion into the Wild Goose Festival. In spite of my checkered history with its winged namesake, I am totally excited.  I am ready to forge a new relationship with the goose.

In fact, I am hoping for a wild goose chase.

I have no idea what kind (if any) internet or network connection I will have out in the woods with throngs of other progressive, spiritual, artsy, justice-seeking types…but my plan is to keep on blogging here, as “live time” as possible, about the small points of light I encounter. I shall be chasing the spirit of the goose this time, and taking in this opportunity to fully immerse myself in experience.  I may be a couple years past my camping prime, but this thing is all about who I am at my core.  So, I am going to just run with that…

Since I am told the festival’s namesake…the wild goose…is a Celtic metaphor for the a Holy Spirit, I already know I have been caught many times. Without a doubt, Spirit has caught me off guard, unaware, at my most vulnerable.  Every time, the result has been more incredible than I could have imagined. The twists and turns of the journey have rocked my plans multiple times, and I am aware of all that wondrous chaos emerging again in the midst of my journey right now. I would have it no other way. I know not to be afraid; my eyes have never been pecked out, I have never been thrown off a cliff and in fact, I have learned to welcome the adventure of learning new patterns of flight and finding new dimensions of healing, growth, and service that emerge from every encounter.

So, these next days, I will let the spirit of the wild goose lead. I will delight in telling the tales of my goose chase, whenever I catch a glimpse of that spirit. I hope that some of you will stay tuned here to see what emerges in story, poetry, and photography. And, if you have a chance, give a little squawk of support…or say a prayer…for me on this wild goose chase on which I am about to embark.

 

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Out Loud

Posted on June 22, 2014 by harasprice

Today, with great joy, I had the privilege of announcing the call of a new rector for the church community that I so dearly love. This is the happy news I have holding in my heart, and it has been nothing short of miraculous to be a part of this process coming together. The synchronicity and life events, non-coincidental timing and nudging of the spirit to action, friends who are friends of friends coming full circle back into our lives, serendipitous real estate and employment opportunities…there have been moments where Divine Presence has been felt as if a mighty wind and not a still, small voice. I am grateful beyond words, and my spirit and faith have been richly blessed.

There was another small point of light today, though, in the midst of all of the vibrant enthusiasm. In front of my whole congregation, I prayed.

It’s not that I have any particular issue with prayer. Praying is a regular part of my daily, contemplative practice, and I read prayers and quote blessings all the time when I write or when I am in small gatherings of people that I know well. I can happily read and recite prayers in liturgy, and I love the language of beautifully written blessings and quiet vespers to bring my busy days to stillness. Out loud, spontaneous prayer has been another thing entirely. Over the past few months, I have been praying more freely, perhaps at an occasional food pantry opening, or to close a vestry meeting. I never expected to hear myself offering up leading our congregation in prayer for our new rector, her current, congregation, and our whole parish. But, I did. And as I stood this morning in the sacred space of a hand-in-hand “shape” of all present in our congregation and began to pray, something happened.

I was calm, and my words poured from my heart and spirit into the immensity of divine presence.

I recalled, at that moment, the very last time that I had prayed out loud in a large group, openly, with such a quiet confidence of spirit. I was eighteen, a first semester sophomore. It was my Christian Ethics course at Houghton, and we began every class with a prayer. The college was very traditional, and my teacher was a legendary instructor there who was anything but progressive. I had built a carefully constructed, ethical argument in my final paper for the term in support of inclusive language. This was a “Father-God” kind of place, and my feminist leanings and progressive, inclusive theology were getting me into a lot of hot water. I sat toward the back of the lecture hall, seeing a stack of papers ready to be returned. He held one up and pointed in my direction, “The Ethics of Inclusive Language in Contemporary Christianity” he said, reading my paper and motioning me to come to the lectern to pick it up. “Why don’t you stay in the front of the room and open our class in prayer while you are here.”

And so, I did.

It was the last prayer I ever publicly prayed for many years. I prayed from my heart and soul that day, too, with deep conviction and authentic language. The words that I prayed flowed naturally from my spirit. After my “Amen” the room was silent, and no one was making eye contact with me. I took my seat. I put my paper in my bag, assuming it was going to make me cry to see whatever grade had been assigned. I would deal with that later. The class resumed, I took notes, and afterwards I went to mandatory chapel where the male speaker proclaimed a message where women should be “seen and not heard” in the church. I stood up, and walked out with one final declaration: this woman had seen and heard enough. The last straws were about to break in this third and final attempt I was making to reconcile my faith with the organizational church that surrounded me. That was the day I walked away.

The irony is, my grade on that paper was an A. My professor stated he disagreed theologically and personally with every point I made, but that my logic was clear which, ultimately, was what he was grading. It was the most begrudged A he ever gave, I think. My logic was all that remained by the time that chapter of my journey came to a close. My spirit was so wounded after so many years of rejection. What guided me through the next decades of my life was the safe space of reason. Spirituality and intuitive wisdom were my companions only in my own solitude, in the hushed quiet of prayers where only the Holy Spirit could hear me and the truth of my heart could be fully known. Never, ever, again in public.

Until now.

I have written a bit about this most recent chapter of my journey, about crossing the threshold of forgiveness into grace. What I have come to realize is that grace has always been present, even when I felt overwhelmed by failed institutions and judgmental individuals and organizations. God is larger, God is persistent, God is present. And so, when time and study and words of comfort from diverse and multifaceted expressions of faith filled my soul, God was there. When an inclusive welcome was offered to me before I was fully ready to receive it: God was there. When I prayed silently at a quiet Compline and placed my questions on the alter of uncertainty before Divine Presence, God was there. And as I was confirmed by choice, and learned to unfold into grace and say a divine yes to leading and serving in my community of faith, God was there. And God was there today, is with me now and enfolds us still with the intimacy and immensity of Divine Presence.

Today, I was able to step into that presence again with grace, humility, and wonder. It was a seemingly simple offering, rich in complexity only in the shadows of my own experiences. All of that melted, as it does, in the light of Divine Presence. The fervent prayers of the hearts and souls of those joined hand in hand remained, and blessed us all.

And in it, the small point of light of prayer shone brightly.

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Quiet Confidence

Posted on June 21, 2014 by harasprice

It’s been a few days since I have sat still long enough to put words to paper here on small points of light.  In spite of the heat and humidity of a Virginia summer, the only place I wanted to be this morning was on my morning walk.  I wanted to breathe in the quiet breath of nature before most people were even awake; I wanted to walk reverently under the cathedral of dew-heavy trees forming a canopy over my walking path.  My morning doves met me at my door, their song tugging at my soul and reminding me that Divine Presence is always there, always beckoning me.  These past few days, small points of light have indeed been vast and abundant.

And yet, there is not a lot I can say about that right now.

I have to admit, it’s a challenge for a blog writer who thrives on stories of God in the ordinary to keep quiet when there are amazing stories to be told. But, there are also very good reasons to put our story sharing on hold sometimes. Confidentiality around a well-timed process is my good reason right now, reflecting a professional and moral code I have always chosen to honor.

As I walked this morning, allowing the divine serendipity and synchronicity of the week to fully settle into my spirit, it did occur to me that there is a small point of light in quiet confidence itself.

For any other social workers and helping professionals out there, “confidentiality” can become a rote necessity. Confidence is kept, or it is violated and that can seem like a black and white matter of ethics. But, we know from life, journalistic media, social media, whistleblowers, and inside informants that society has many double standards around what we mean by “confidential.” Today, the words that filled my spirit as I walked were “quiet confidence.”

As a social worker, I realize that a lot of what I do is to give and receive the gift of quiet confidence. Whether a client, a student, a research participant, a colleague: information shared with quiet confidence becomes a gift of our exchange, expressing the vulnerability and trust within our relationship. Quiet confidence means we acquiesce to that sharing and know in body, mind, and spirit that someone else is holding with us through a situation or experience in our lives. This is a deep gift of mutual trust.

Many of us really only learn the true value of confidentiality when we experience a breech in that trust. We learn that information has been shared, some vulnerability we dared to express has been leaked, or some precious but private piece of ourselves has been exposed. It can take months, years, decades to return to a state of quiet confidence, and sometimes things can never truly feel right again. I know that pain, and so do many people I know.

As I walked today, I realized that a quiet confidence is deeply and divinely present in my soul. The melancholy beauty of this chorus of doves above me this morning reminded me that it has not always been this way. I realized, deeply, that the return of this quiet confidence is a profound gift. Crossing the threshold of forgiveness allowed me to risk trust…not just with selected individuals or groups who had “earned” it, but with larger community, with institutions, and with God. The vulnerable trust of the broken to hold ourselves open is an invitation to grace. We don’t have to earn it, or deserve it. We simply unfold within it. That has been, and continues to be, my experience of living in Divine Presence.

Quiet confidence.

On this day, I happen to be holding quiet confidence around something exceedingly joyful. But, my realization in the quiet hours of this morning is that quiet confidence is, in itself, exceedingly joyful. It means we are seen and known, trusted and loved, respected and honored for exactly who we are and exactly what we bring to this celebration of daily experience we call life. Today, I hold in my heart the joyful and quiet confidence that this day, lived in Divine Presence, will be all that it is meant to be. As I have learned this week, these small points of light are often leading to more than I could ask or imagine.

I have blogged about my favorite poem from Rilke before, but I think its worth repeating today, as I unfold in quiet confidence:

I’m too alone in the world, yet not alone enough
to make each hour holy.
I’m too small in the world, yet not small enough
to be simply in your presence, like a thing–
just as it is.
I want to know my own will
and to move with it.
And I want, in the hushed moments
when the nameless draws near,
to be among the wise ones–
or alone.
I want to mirror your immensity.
I want never to be too weak or too old
to bear the heavy, lurching image of you.
I want to unfold.
Let no place in me hold itself closed,
for where I am closed, I am false.
I want to stay clear in your sight.
I would describe myself
like a landscape I’ve studied
at length, in detail;
like a word I’m coming to understand;
like a pitcher I pour from at mealtime;
like my mother’s face;
like a ship that carried me
when the waters raged.

-Rainer Maria Rilke
from Book of Hours: Love Poems to God. I, 13. Anita Barrows & Joanna Macy, trans. New York: Riverhead Books, 1996, 2005.

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Trinity Knot

Posted on June 15, 2014 by harasprice

Today is Trinity Sunday, possibly my favorite day (theologically speaking) of the liturgical calendar.  I have heard many jokes passed between my clergy friends about who gets stuck preaching on the day that the liturgy focuses on the seeming conundrum of the one-yet-triune and triune-yet-one God that is a cornerstone of the Christian faith.  But, for me, the Trinity has always simply made sense, right down to the core of how I see the world.  Some things are imprinted in our souls, the way that perhaps a genetic code imprints our bodies.  The Trinity is that for me, and every symbol or song of the three-in-one and one-in-three has always had resonance.  I was reminded of this soul knowledge that I have carried and held fast to over the years today during a homily preached by Bishop Susan Goff, who was presiding at our parish for the yearly visit and Confirmation.  I enjoy listening to her sermons (the ones intended for the children and the ones intended for the adults).  But, I knew today was going to be extra special when it began with the words of the Lorica of St. Patrick (St. Patrick’s Breastplate) and contained references to the celtic trinity knot.  In her homily, she referenced one of my favorite Irish church stories of St. Patrick holding up a shamrock, and translating an understanding of God by showing the simple beauty of the Trinity in the nature that was all around, even in the triple leaves of that green clover.

Exactly.

So, all these Celtic stories on Trinity Sunday got me thinking today about the triquetra…the trinity knot…and the value of this symbol to my spiritual journey.  Specifically, it made me remember the day that I decided to get my tattoo.

I think I set a precedent for myself when I turned 30, when I decided to add a piercing…a single emerald solitaire…to my left ear.  I felt more complete with it than without it, and I am now sure that if it ever left my ear for more than a cleaning, it would feel like I had lost an appendage.  So, as I approached my 40th birthday a few years back, I had a similar nudge.  I wanted to mark my next decade with something that would be a part of me, always.  As crazy as it sounded, I wanted a tattoo.

My spouse…and my daughter…thought I was crazy.  But, I said something to one of my friends who shared a strong sentiment about getting her own symbolic tattoo as well.  And so it was that we made a tattoo pact, set a date, and started interviewing tattoo artists.  This alone was a hysterical adventure, because the two of us couldn’t have looked more out of place in our professional attire, meeting up outside tattoo joints around town with our little notebooks of information, as if we were interviewing job candidates.  But, this was serious business.  We finally settled on Drew, “Tattoo Artist and Philosopher” according to his business card.  He came highly recommended, and he looked the right amount of rocker and geek to satisfy our credentials.  What can go wrong with a tattoo artist and philosopher behind the needle??

But, then came the true challenge: selecting THE tattoo.  I knew what a wanted: a triquetra knot.  But, how ornate?  How big?  Black and white?  Color?  These rolled around my head until I could feel my head spinning and hear myself thinking: who have I become??  But, this really was important.  This was going to be with me forever and mark a particular time in my life.  So, I told him the symbol I wanted, and why.

I told Drew I wanted a celtic triple-knot, a triquetra, which to me represented the strength and unity of three-united-in-one.  The triquetra…or Trinity Knot…can be thought of as the Father, the Son, the Holy Spirit in Christianity.  But, the Celtic triquetra also represents the three unions of the divine feminine: Maiden, Mother, and Crone.  That symbolism is also deeply rooted in my ancestry, and in my spirituality.  Finally, the symbol to me is also the triple-oneness of how I move through the world: the interweaving of body, mind, and spirit into the person who rises each day to greet this world and lives out a journey that tries, daily, to nurture all three facets of my personhood.  This was a powerful symbol, and I wanted to wear it well.

Drew looked at me, and smoothed his pointy goatee.  He nodded slowly and said nothing for a few minutes.  Finally, my tattoo-philosopher friend spoke:  OK.

Then, he gave me some practical advice:  plan for it to be larger than you think you want it, and pick a color you love.  I gave him the go-ahead to draw it out for me.

And so, a plan came together:  Celtic knotwork, a triquetra knot woven into an infinity circle, and permission to use the back of my right shoulder like an open canvas.  Size of a baseball, not a quarter.  Full color, with the main one as forest green.

my tattoo

We showed up on the day of the big event, bringing along another friend for moral support.  She did photo document the adventure, but regrettably those files seem to have vanished (which in retrospect is probably a good thing).  Drew worked his magic on the canvas of my shoulder, and I sat there taking in the ink and the meaning.  It was a good day, but better after I was finished and we could go out and have a drink to numb the throbbing a bit.

I love the art I wear as a part of my body.  My Trinity Knot is a part of me, and I am in full awareness of it in the same way as I am of my emerald.  In real ways, my spirituality is not an external God “out there” but instead, a very real embodiment of God in the world:  in people, in nature, and in me.  I wear that reminder viscerally now…a tangible response to a gentle stirring of spirit as I crossed into this decade, my soul possibly knowing before my mind or body were aware that this decade would be about embracing the fullness of my spirituality, of seeing God in the ordinary, of re-dedicating myself to the Divine Yes of showing up to my life and living into its fullness.

Trinity Sunday’s small point of light…

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After Rain

Posted on June 11, 2014 by harasprice

I glanced at the weather this morning and saw rain in the forecast, but it wasn’t until I was in the middle of the wholesale club store with my cart full of needed supplies for a post-funeral reception at church tomorrow that I heard the thunder. No matter how fast I sprinted, there was no way I was beating Mother Nature to tonight’s thunderstorms. Even once I was back at home it continued to rain through dinner, and into our evening stroll to feed our neighbor’s cats. My rain barrel is overflowing. The showers have now calmed to a steady mist, and I decided to stroll my yard and take in the after rain ambiance.

After rain.

As I was strolling, my mind drifted back to my childhood, walking in an after rain wonderland of lush, green grass and vibrant flowers dotted with clinging raindrops. The hill between our side yard and our neighbor’s yard was covered in sweet peas, with their purple-pink blooms. I was reaching into the clumps of flowers when I noticed tiny, perfect snails that were intertwined with the leaves, blossoms, and curly tendrils growing wild on the hillside. I marveled at the perfectly formed shells, and the way they glided along the leaves. I was convinced these belonged to fairies…they were so tiny, so perfect. I was completely lost in imagination in this after rain wonderland.

Walking after rain still feels like liminal space to me. Maybe it’s the symbolism, of a world washed clean and returned to its purest state. Maybe it’s the artistry created by light-catching water droplets, or the potential of spotting a rainbow. Perhaps it’s a deep, soul-stamped reminder of the power and beauty of nature.

Remembering back to my childhood, I was drawn in by the quest for snails whenever it rained after that. Sometimes I found them and sometimes I did not. It was elusive, like a rainbow sighting. I wondered, when I heard the story of Noah told and re-told in Sunday School, whether the snails were inside or outside the ark. I have long since moved past the need for biblical literalism, but there is something in the epic narrative of the flood story that does speak to my spirit, in the same way as the snails did. In the aftermath of a great storm, we catch a glimpse of something average, normal, daily: an olive branch, or a tiny snail on its sweet-pea abode, perhaps. After rain, that ordinary siting feels extraordinary. It speaks directly to spirit, activating that spark of intuitive knowledge that offers a glimpse of the divine ordinary.

Maybe that is why strolling my garden offers this liminal space for my reflection tonight. The world is washed clean, and my eyes can see what I might otherwise overlook. A snail, a rainbow, a perfect prism captured in a water drop, a small point of light. Reminders, perhaps, of the overwhelming beauty of the divine ordinary at work in the natural world.

After rain

Dressed to perfection
snails glide toward the purple blooms
still drying off.

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