Blogging in Narnia

Posted on June 22, 2013 by harasprice

I am in Narnia as I write this morning. I literally opened the wardrobe, parted the thick, furry coats, and stepped through the door onto a little ledge among the mountain top vista which surrounds me as I write. It is an incredible place of solitude, and offers me a small point of light to start my day simply by being present in this space, somewhere between worlds of flesh and spirit. A thin place, as my Celtic ancestors would call it.

I am on retreat, and this Narnia Closet is just one feature of this amazing place (the Bellfry) which was so deeply and thoughtfully constructed. The Narnia closet can be found in the meditation room, which is where I spent the night in blissful solitude before rising at dawn to walk the labyrinth at sunrise, mountains surrounding me on all sides. I lack words to convey how deeply meaningful, resonant, and transformative this sequence of contemplative opportunities has been for me, especially on this Summer Solstice.

This particular retreat offers me a mix of community and solitude. I am the outgoing Past President of PLIDA and our members have gathered from across the U.S. and Canada to spend the weekend connecting, planning, supporting, and working. As I transition away from formal leadership, I have carved out time to be present and connected with this amazing community of healers and leaders. I have also carved out time for solitude as my own personal and professional journey continues to wind me through new paths and allows new doors to open. I am intentionally relishing each step. It is intentionality that propels me to chronicle my journey here and now.

Back to Narnia, though. I grew up loving each and every book in the Chronicles of Narnia. Lucy, Tumnus the faun, Aslan, Peter, Edmund, Susan, the White Witch filled my summer days of childhood. I still have my well read boxed set of paperbacks. I still have my favorite plot points and quotes. I still think so much human yearning and divine trust is summed up in these simple conversations and characters. I read, and read, and re-read the poignant moments in particular. Aslan’s words and the children’s authentic quest to understand them spoke to my young spirit:

“It isn’t Narnia, you know,” sobbed Lucy. “It’s you. We shan’t meet you there. And how can we live, never meeting you?”
“But you shall meet me, dear one,” said Aslan.
“Are -are you there too, Sir?” said Edmund.
“I am,” said Aslan. “But there I have another name. You must learn to know me by that name. This was the very reason why you were brought to Narnia, that by knowing me here for a little, you may know me better there.”
― C.S. Lewis, The Voyage of the Dawn Treader

In my first semester of college, I was exposed to more of the literary writings of C.S. Lewis and began to view the tales in new ways as I moved through childhood and adolescence into adulthood. I recall The Great Divorce was required reading in one of my classes, and I took away from that particular reading Lewis’ concept of the journey not only through Narnia, but through life and death as beckoning us to journey further up and further in. Although I have meandered greatly in my spiritual journey, that core concept is one that has retained throughout my path, and this morning as I journeyed the mown path toward the labyrinth, it was that same concept, retained across years and miles and spiritual meandering that caught my mind and drew my attention Inward. Upward. Onward. And so, I find myself perched in Narnia now following that walk, finding light and solitude in this thin place before rejoining my colleagues.

Befitting this venue, I will close with a few more words from C.S. Lewis before joining my colleagues for our day of togetherness. In both solitude, and in community, there is light. May we be attentive to the light and miracles that cross our paths on each step of the journey.

Miracles are a retelling in small letters of the very same story which is written across the whole world in letters too large for some of us to see.

. — C. S. Lewis

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Both Feet

Posted on June 15, 2013 by harasprice

I have had a favorite family story on my mind all weekend. Maybe it is because of the media barrage of “father” images on this greeting-card holiday, or maybe it has more to do with the lessons I am learning on this particular point on my spiritual journey. Either way, the story is begging to be told this morning so I will set it free…

I was about three years old when my father and I had our first foray into “solo parenting” with each other. My Mom needed gall bladder surgery, and that meant caring for me was left in the hands of my father. Although I was very young, I do have some very vivid memories of this event, including going to the hospital to see my Mom while she was recovering (it was the 70’s, long before same day surgery). But the most memorable event from our family lore happened later that night when Dad and I were home by ourselves.

I woke up in the middle of the night, and I needed to use the bathroom. The bathroom was on the other side of the house, and I was not about to venture there alone in the dark. So, I went to wake up my Dad in the bedroom next to mine. “Dad” I whispered. And I waited. “DAD!” I yelled. He woke up, startled. “I have to go to the bathroom.” I remember he sort of grunted, mostly asleep, but lovingly scooped me up and carried me to the bathroom. He sleepily set me down, presumably on the toilet as I had asked him to do, and started to close the door and walk away

“Dad”…. I was very hesitant at first. Nighttime help was Mom territory. Maybe Dads did this different, I thought. But something was definitely not right.

“DAD!” I yelled. He turned around.

“My foot is in the toilet!”

Still groggy, Dad rubbed his eyes and asked (as if it mattered), “Which one??”

Crying, I called out:

“BOTH OF THEM!”

We still laugh together at this story, the memory of which likely has become more vivid with retelling over the years. I had a full, two foot and most of my lower half immersion in toilet water that night, and there was a whole lot of cleaning up to do. My Dad embellishes the story now by stating that his punishment was that after he got me dried off and changed, I immediately crawled into bed next to him and put my cold, clammy little toilet water feet all over his legs.

The funniest part of this story, from my perspective, is that I am still a both-feet-in-the-water kind of girl. Maybe this early childhood experience was a baptism of sorts, having two feet stuck firmly into the toilet bowl of life and coming out with laughter and a great story. I have most certainly spent some time waist deep in some pretty unpleasant waters. Thankfully, my feet haven’t always been aimed toward a toilet bowl, though. I am often plunged into amazing situations, serendipitous opportunities, and richly rewarding experiences. I also have learned that some situations are not what I anticipated they would be and there is no easy way out, even when I call for help. Over time, I have learned to trust that when I call for help, strong arms will lift me up, dry me off, and set both feet firmly back on solid ground. I will be wet, and the aftermath may require a lot of cleaning-up. But, when all is said and done, there will be a story worth telling and retelling about the experience. There will be a lesson…a small point of light…within the immersion.

I also know from my own journey that there are times when all we can manage to do is stick one toe in the water, especially when we are learning (or re-learning) to trust. Cleaning up and drying off can take its toll on us, and we need time to heal. But there is joyful abandon in recognizing within ourselves a return to the child-like willingness to jump in with both feet, to be fully immersed but not washed away…or perhaps in my case, flushed away…by the experience. I have come to learn that water can be life-giving, even when it provides an opportunity for a shared story that keeps us laughing together through all the ups and downs of life.

May we be willing to jump with both feet into the waters of life, always trusting in the arms that are present to guide and protect us on our journey.

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Being Still

Posted on June 13, 2013 by harasprice

I am not naturally inclined toward being still. If I am truly honest about my nature, motion and action are central to my daily living and to the trajectory of my personal and professional growth. I have been described across my life as a hard worker, a person who acts on my words, someone for whom no grass grows beneath my feet. Ideas need to be accompanied by an action plan in order for me to take them seriously, and if I like the idea but don’t see an action plan, I generally take it upon myself to set one in motion, for better or for worse. I would rather ask for forgiveness than permission. I will take risk over regret any day. Five hours of sleep is plenty for me.

Have I mentioned, I am not naturally inclined to be still?

So, when I reflect on being still…which has now become a central component of my daily life and spiritual practice…it is from this place of understanding my own nature and reclaiming the value of stillness within it.

I set up my first meditation space in a tiny room in my tiny house. I was in the midst of major life transition…relationship, career, geography. I craved stillness and didn’t know how to find it. So, of course, my action plan was to redecorate a room as a meditation space in the hope that stillness would appear. The Universe is benevolent and God does meet us exactly where we are at, so I did find moments of stillness in that small, freshly painted space, even if they were only a few minutes long. I also began to do other painting…watercolor…in that space and realized this also had a centering effect on my spirit if I could let go of producing a product and simply lose my thoughts in the process. Stillness and action could be an intricate dance, I was learning. The stillness of that space kept me centered during that particular time of life transition, and I established a similar space in a new city on the other side of that transition in hopes that stillness would follow me. I hadn’t yet claimed stillness as my own, though.

New practices need to be nurtured in order to survive. In subsequent years, the intensity of my professional and personal life created other patterns of action, and my experiences of stillness were relegated to a few moments here and there when I chose to find them or as I would say, “when I could find the time.” I never regretted finding the time to be still when I did, though. But, action was garnering me more accolades, frankly, so my busy nature thrived. But then, something changed.

When I look back on what I have written in this blog, I recognize that I began to deliberately carve out time for being still not in response to something external, but after my simple but decidedly real encounter with God as always present in my life. I wanted stillness to become aware of that Presence. Learning to be still happened slowly and deliberately, a response to my desire to be present in my daily reality, to experience the Presence of God in my daily reality, in an intentional and mindful way. I have allowed myself the freedom to experiment with being still…solitary stillness, walking meditation, artistic exploration, walking the labyrinth, visual meditation, centering prayer, and yes…even blogging my spiritual journey. I admittedly find it more challenging to be still in a communal setting because of my natural level of distraction, but I am experimenting with that, too. Being still with another (or others) has its own gift of communal presence.

Ironically, the more intention I put into being still, the more time presents itself for stillness. While this makes no logical sense, I accept it as truth in a different way. I have come to know that being still is an active state, not a passive one. It is growth producing and life giving.

Yesterday, I came across this brief meditation from Richard Rohr in my daily email, written as an introduction to centering prayer. It spoke to me in its simplicity and truth and I thought it summed up well the inner knowledge I have gained about being still. If you are reading this and have not practiced a contemplative path, or if you are experimenting with actively embracing the stillness of being, maybe this is a good start:

When we’re doing life right, it means nothing more than it is right now, because God is always in this moment in an accepting and non-blaming way. When we are able to experience that, taste it, and enjoy it, we don’t need to hold on to it nor are we afraid to let go of it. The next moment will have its own taste and enjoyment.

Because our moments are not tasted—or full—or real—or in the Presence—we are never fulfilled and there is never enough. We then create artificial fullness and distractions and try to pass time or empty time with that. Perhaps this quote from Psalm 46:10 can be your entranceway into the now, if you slow down in this way:

Be still and know that I am God.

Be still and know that I am.

Be still and know.

Be still.

Be.

Adapted from Everything Belongs:
The Gift of Contemplative Prayer, pp. 60-62

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Forty Three

Posted on June 9, 2013 by harasprice

Forty-three small points of light for which I am grateful today, in no particular order…

Friends, near and far
Finding and redefining family
The chipmunk that lives in my garden
The taste of homegrown tomatoes and basil
My daughter’s laughter
Hugs
Manuscript acceptance letters
A note of thanks
Compline
Walking a labyrinth
Clover, our cute and feisty pet hedgehog
A perfect pairing of wine with dinner
Roses beginning to open
The first flower of spring
A warm fire on a chilly evening
Morning coffee
A breeze that brushes my face while I pray
Notes from old friends
Recognition of the inner person reflected in someone’s eyes
Ice cream for dinner
Igniting a spark of intellectual curiosity
Being lost in song
Apple pie on Thanksgiving. With NYS cheddar cheese.
When the data speaks the story clearly
Watercolor pigment traveling across brush strokes of water
Hiking to the cross at Shrinemont
Communion with full inclusion
A meal prepared for you with love
A walk in the garden after rain
Waking to the sound of birds chirping
Dreams that you know have meaning
Bright red cardinals
Something made especially for you
Making a new friend
Accepting grace
A perfect snowflake crystal that melts against your skin
Music that transports you to another place
Being known and loved
Cooking a dish to perfection
Watching a child sleeping peacefully
A good hair day
Finding the perfect quotation
When your words speak to someone else’s spirit

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Unexpected tears

Posted on June 7, 2013 by harasprice

Whenever you find tears in your eyes, especially unexpected tears, it is well to pay the closest attention. They are not only telling you something about the secret of who you are but, more often than not, God is speaking to you through them of the mystery of where you have come from and is summoning you to where, if your soul is to be saved, you should go to next.

–Frederick Buechner

I love it when I find a quote…or a quote finds me…and it settles in to my spirit like a gift. My morning began with that gift, the small point of light that affirms that we are not the only one experiencing what we are experiencing. Others have come before, others will come after and we all share a common experience. I think that is what I love about quotations: they evoke belonging, being fully known and understood by another soul.

So, Buechner understood something about unexpected tears, too. And experienced them on the journey as well, I suspect.

Being who I am, I want to unpack this term. “Unexpected” means that we are not prepared, not awaiting, not intellectually or cognitively planning for the event. We have not stuffed tissues in our pockets (like we do when going to a wedding) nor have we insured a box of tissues were quickly within reach (like I do when I counsel and console the grieving). Those are actions of expectancy, of preparation. “Unexpected” means we are caught unaware, raw, and tissue-less…caught in the moment of being our authentic selves amid our daily living.

“Tears” are neither sniffles, nor moistness about the eyes, nor keeping a stiff upper lip. Tears cannot be stifled. They well up in our eyes, run down our cheeks, and scream out to those around us: something is happening. In our modern society, tears are often interpreted “something is wrong” and very often our knee-jerk first response is to say, “are you ok?” as if tears indicate we are less than ok. Tears give away our inner workings, and expose us and our humanness. No wonder they can seem unsettling.

“Unexpected Tears” then, are truly at the core of that which unsettles us. Unprepared, in the midst of our daily living, giving away that we are having a core experience of our humanness at that very moment. Terrifying. Beautiful.

Buechner posits that unexpected tears are they key to moments of spiritual growth and enlightenment. I tend to agree. Reflecting on my own life, when I find myself wondering, “why am I crying?” that usually propels me to soul searching. Sometimes, like the present point on my journey, I experience these tears as a gift. Moments of enlightenment, of clarity. When walking, when working, when being still, when being myself. Times when a divine spark of wisdom meets a human longing are filled with enormous potential for growth. I am reflecting on those moments today.

The gift of unexpected tears.

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Remembering Robin

Posted on June 4, 2013 by harasprice

Today, I finished purging my files and packing the seven orange crates that will move my professional life to our new office building.  I have been thinking about packing as nuisance, not nostalgia, since this particular move has nothing to do with professional transition, just a building relocation for me and all my colleagues.

I was wrong.

I had purged several cabinets and was down to one more file drawer, occupied mostly by individual files for students I’ve worked with on various projects and at various times over the last seven years.  Each doctoral student I’ve worked with on a directed research, independent study, or dissertation has her or his own file with notes from our meetings and other materials.  I am in full out purging mode with this move, though, so I decided to pull all the graduates and only keep what was needed from their files.  That was when I came to Robin.

“Robin-Dissertation” was written on the folder.

The file contained only two things.  The first: a paper containing hand-written notes of our first meeting to hash out the possible methodological selections for her dissertation exploring interpersonal violence among women of color.  I had a few characteristic scrawls of a conceptual model, a big line down the center exploring options along two possible methodological frameworks depending on her finalized questions.

The second item: the service program from her funeral.

Robin died very unexpectedly as she began the third year of her doctoral program.  It was just shortly after this first meeting we had after she’d asked me to be on her dissertation committee and help her focus on methodological development.  I had her as a student in class, and I was thrilled for the opportunity to work with her.  She was smart, witty, and always managed to be able to laugh at herself and in doing so, find strength and resilience.  She was the kind of person who was going to make a difference in the world in her research, her teaching, her passion and commitment to understanding why violence occurs and why it persists.

Her death was tragic to her family, her student colleagues, and her faculty colleagues.  I know it was devastating to me because it caught me so off-guard.  I had chuckled the day before when she wrote on her facebook wall, “It’s so tiring being fabulous…I think I’ll take a nap.”  Afterwards, it seemed almost poetic and darkly ironic. And yet, it was quintessential Robin.

So, I am thinking about Robin today.  I am not wondering if she would have graduated; I know she would have.  I do wonder what she would think about what others have done as they remember her, though.  She inspired clinicians, community members, colleagues…and she inspired me.  I have been diligently studying women’s mental health for years and didn’t think to include interpersonal violence as one of the co-occurring life events.  Now, the current research project that I direct integrates interpersonal violence wholeheartedly into screening and assessment, and I cannot imagine it being any other way.  I thought of her when I was writing the grant to fund this project.  I think of her still.

I kept Robin’s file in the crate to be moved to my new office, in case anyone was wondering.  Loss is painful.  But there is a small point of light today in the remembrance of a great spirit connecting with my own, inspiring intellectual curiosity.  That light remains.

Remembering you today, Robin…

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Susan Speaks Spirit

Posted on June 2, 2013 by harasprice

I have spent the past week weaving together photos, reflections, quotes, and other tributes from members of my faith community as we prepare to say good-bye and send our well-wishes to Susan, who has been our Associate Rector for the past five years. In creating this virtual tribute, I recognized a pattern that is beginning to feel familiar. I felt a nudging of my spirit and an idea forming (albeit, half baked at first) in my mind. I said “yes” and took a step forward by putting the idea out there and committing myself to see it through as it evolved. Others joined along, momentum began to build, ideas began to flow, and time presented itself in unexpected ways so that I could calmly complete what I had set out to do. The product is more than I could have anticipated, and the process was transformative. And now, on the day this tribute will be presented, I look back on the experience and investment of time and realize that once again, I received even more from “showing up and saying yes” than what I put in.

In that spirit, I am writing this tribute to Susan here on my blog. Because she is a brilliant (not small) point of light on my journey.

Susan has given a great gift both to our faith community, and to me, personally. The gift she conveys is that of wisdom and presence, of bringing her whole self into what she says and how she allows her religious vocation to move through her. She is prompted to act, puts it out there, experiences it fully, and finds (and helps other find) the growth within their present moments. This is true of her blogging on our church website (a lasting treasure), her deep questions posed to individuals and groups both electronically and via sticky note as well as in person, her sermons that wrap TED talks and scripture and sacred writings from around the world, her “parish reads” that push us forward, her sincerity in speaking, working, and living the Good News. It is also true of her conversations with me, the questions she has posed for me to ponder, the doors she has opened to invite me to walk through, her encouragement to take meaningful risks that have furthered my own spiritual journey. She speaks truth to spirit with me, and has a vision of what can be actualized in my life even when it is merely a glimmer of possibility in my spirit. It has been a true gift to have met her on this chapter of my journey. Actually, I deeply believe that our paths crossing at this time in our lives was not accidental. It was and is a gift of spirit, and for that I am deeply grateful.

I also blame her for my blogging. That’s right, Susan. If you are reading this, take that one in. 🙂

To say a bit more, I am fairly confident that without her living examples of the power of media, blogging would have remained solely in my classroom and used for professional, objective information gathering and sharing. Not so much anymore. My foray into spiritual journeying in cyberspace, for anyone to read who wants to, is beyond my own intellectual willingness. It truly is. I can’t even think about it too much or it seems crazy and terrifying. And yet, months into this process, I can say it has been transformative to me, personally and professionally. It has transformed my relationships with people who knew me…but not all of me. It has opened new conversations with those I have never even met. And, it has helped me find both voice and meaning through story. I hold her accountable, not because she told me to do it (she didn’t) but that she understood the transformative power of such an experience and was a witness to it taking hold in my life. Borrowing the language of Richard Rohr, this has allowed my journey to become incarnate in me. The experience of writing and reflecting on my journey as it unfolds has altered my present reality into something deeply spiritual. She saw that potential and nurtured it, cultivating opportunities for growth and change in my own vision and understanding of spirit and spirituality in my life. And yes, that is allowing new paths of my life to unfold moment by moment, open door after open door, and “yes” by “yes.”

So, thank you, Susan. You should have known you’d be getting a blog post as you head off for a summer of ministry on the Mountain, and then the next chapter of your journey in a new state and a new city. You have left an indelible mark on this community of faith, and you are and will continue to be a dynamic presence on my spiritual journey. I will still be blogging, and emailing, so I know you will continue to see that unfold. And I cannot wait to see where your own journey leads. It will be amazing to watch and witness that.

Sending the love of God, the wisdom of spirit, and the gratitude of community to be with you all along the way as each new door opens…

Peace,
Sarah

Link to Susan’s Tribute: http://www.haikudeck.com/p/jfL7DhooZw/virtual-susan

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Order my Steps

Posted on May 26, 2013 by harasprice

I separated myself from my phone and personal belongings, locking them in the car. I carried only my music folder and a hymnal, and my driver’s license. Together with my choir friends, we headed into the cinder block structure through a series of metal detectors and routine checks of bags and people. We surrendered our identification in exchange for a visitor pass, and with both guard and chaplain escorts, moved through a series of huge locked gates and drab, concrete hallways into the central gathering place, where meals and medications are distributed. No decor, no individuality, no connection with the outside world: stepping foot into a jail, even for a visit, is a reminder of how much freedom and privilege we carry with us on a daily basis.

A few of us voiced how out of place we probably looked, our eclectic singing group of about a dozen people ranging in age from 25 to 85. Emphasis on the higher end of that range. We worried that some of our music was also probably a bit too “out there” for this group, including an an anthem we planned to sing in Russian. No matter, we were there to sing and connect with a diverse group of inmates. On this particular visit, all those attending were in recovery. We watched them enter silently, in single rows, and sit down in the rows of dimly painted metal benches.

The city jail chaplain is a priest with presence. Warmth exudes from him, and it was clear this group was his congregation. The warmth of relationship and the transforming power of connection was present in handshakes, words of encouragement and even occasional moments of laughter. Several inmates helped us set up the keyboard and microphones, and we started to sing a series of our favorite anthems from the past year. My choir sings with our hearts, even if we occasionally miss a few notes. We are not definitely not accustomed to applause and standing ovation, but this group stood and clapped for every piece we sang. As the evening sun-rays shed their light through the ceiling high window slits, something greater than we were began to transform this space. And, as we began to sing Order My Steps, an awareness began to fill me. In this group, in this space, we were beginning to become one voice, one body, one group united for a few brief moments through the divine music of the spheres.

I want to walk worthy,
My calling to fulfill.
Please order my steps lord,
And I’ll do your blessed will.
The world is ever changing,
But you are still the same;
If you order my steps, I’ll praise your name.

The power of divine love and connection is felt most poignantly at unexpected times and places. In that space, there was no doubt of the presence of spirit. What brought us all to this common space was our humanness. We all fall or falter. But the spark and presence of the divine is also in each one of us. United in song, in worship, in connection…that brought a transformative space that I felt in myself and saw reflected in the eyes, the smiles, the connection of each member of that congregation. We were, indeed, in step.

Then in this moment, the tables turned. The chaplain brought forward two of the jail’s residents who wanted to sing for us. We joined the congregation in the audience, and these two men lifted their voices in music and praise. The tables turned, our roles reversed. Choir and inmates sat, all together, and we listened to the voices of these two men sing in gospel harmony:

I need you, you need me;
we’re all a part of God’s body.
Stand with me, agree with me;
we’re all a part of God’s body.

It is His will that every need be supplied;
you are important to me,
I need you to survive.
You are important to me,
I need you to survive.

I pray for you, you pray for me;
I love you, I need you to survive.
I won’t harm you with words from my mouth;
I love you, I need you to survive.

The kingdom of God was present in this moment. The last were first, the first were last. There was no division by race or by creed or by human standards of worthiness. I became aware that while I still “owned” the privilege of my freedom in a legal sense, we all owned and shared in a greater freedom, too. I prayed that each person there could experience that freedom, even for a moment. In that freedom is the Kingdom of God. And we do, truly, need each other to survive.

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Our Words

Posted on May 17, 2013 by harasprice

“Now is the only time. How we relate to it creates the future. In other words, if we’re going to be more cheerful in the future, it’s because of our aspiration and exertion to be cheerful in the present. What we do accumulates; the future is the result of what we do right now.”
— Pema Chödrön in When Things Fall Apart

I love quotations, and have for many years. When I still typed term papers (before the computerization of scholarly products) my last great act before the final version was submitted was to pour through books for a quotation that somehow captured the theme, or spirit, of the argument conveyed in my writing. That always accompanied my submissions, sometimes to my detriment. I have never been accused of being a conformist.

It’s funny to think about that now, in the context of an academic life where “quotation” or citation is often interwoven with intellectual property and academic integrity, rather than with spirit or intention. I have been wrestling with several issues to do with those concepts this week…including the use (and misuse) of my own words. But, this morning, I paused in the present moment to fret less about the details of those events and focus instead on the reason behind our emphasis on word use in academic integrity, quotation, and citation: words matter.

In this day and time, our words are easily recorded in emails, texts, blogs, tweets, status updates…it’s practically endless. At times we take pride in our words and other times we may wish to retract them. But, they belong to us, and they chart a course that tells the world who we are and where we are going. Each word which emerges from us is our experience of the present moment.

As I prepared to write this particular blog entry, the quote from Pema Chödrön’s When Things Fall Apart entered my mind. Chödrön suggests that the future isn’t necessarily defined by waiting on the arrival of events yet to come. Instead, the future unfolds by the living of present moments, and our intention to learn and grow from the gifts presented to us in those moments.

This intentional awareness and present living is a part of many faith traditions. I also read it in Christian writer Richard Rohr, in the Buddhist writings of Thích Nhất Hạnh, and I see and experience it lived in personal and communal practices of meditation and contemplative prayer. This spiritual philosophy resonates with me and reminds me of the intentionality with which I speak, publish, post, converse. In those daily moments, the core of my present state of being is revealed, and those words point me (and those with whom I share my words) into what our future will be. Our words mark our present reality, and that present reality becomes our future.

We may not be able to retract our words, or our actions. But, the good news is, we always have the opportunity to create a new present moment.

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Commencement

Posted on May 10, 2013 by harasprice

I am writing in the midst of “celebration season” (a phrase coined by my colleague Kia Bentley) here in academia. Yesterday, we celebrated our doctoral graduates and award winners in our school of social work. This morning, I shall don my vibrant green academic regalia and process in my robe through two days of graduation ceremonies, first for our School of Social Work and then for the full University. The flowing parade of academic regalia, the meaning of colors and stripes and sleeve length and cuff-shapes and hat points, the symbolism of higher education institutionalized across generations of time and tradition. It is simultaneously regal and ridiculous; celebratory and melancholy; this academic tradition truly is the ritual demarcation of both endings and beginnings.

Commencement.

I realize I am waxing poetic (and perhaps over-dramatic) in this particular reflection, but I actually love commencement. So, I wanted to reflect back on some memorable moments from my own past when, either at the time or in retrospect, the commencement of new beginnings truly did shine a small point of light on my path.

High school graduation now quickly approaches a 25 year mark for me, which seems difficult to imagine. I was full of promise, and frankly, full of myself. The joy of adolescence. I remember giving the opening salutatorian address, and bringing flowers to bestow on a few close friends. But, looking back, the day itself marks sharp transition between the person I was and the person I would become. The next day (literally) I started training as a nursing assistant and began what would eventually become a long and winding career path in health and human service. I had no idea what I was in for among this big world of many different kinds of people, and I was too naive to care. Forward motion was simply moving out for me, and only in retrospect do I wish I had done some things differently, to appreciate those who were around me in different ways. Mercifully, being 18 is a phase that passes for all of us, so it is joyful in our adulthood to look back on those years and see who we moved on to become.

My undergraduate graduation was a blip in time, marked for me by the joy of being with my classmates on the floor of the giant Memorial Auditorium in Buffalo. I also remember spotting my family in the crowd long before they spotted me, and laughing with my friends as my family tried to get the wrong person…some unknown other female in a long black down, square hat, and curly hair…to wave back to them. We finally found each other by creating a wave of my friends standing up and calling out. I didn’t graduate from the same college I had started attending, and my transfer mid-college from a small, religious school into a public state college alongside very busy state of working, finishing classes, paying my bills and charting my own course gave me a legitimate pride in having reached an independent goal. But, I had found a career path I loved and I was ready to take on changing the world. I was close with a group of working students, and we stuck tight for moral support. I was headed to graduate school and had lined up housing, a job, and a summer internship in a new city where I was headed the next week. A fresh beginning. That graduation was fun and frivolous with beach balls and confetti, hundreds of people moving into the world together. It is a sweet reminder of how accomplishment feels, and how much support is needed to achieve one’s goals.

My MSW graduation from Syracuse is deeply memorable. I thought that would be my last graduation, actually. My graduate degree, age 22. I was grateful to have earned it, and it was a first in my family. Like I celebrate now with my own students, there was a graduation ceremony from my home department as well as a University Commencement ceremony. I most fondly recall University commencement, surprisingly. I had affixed bright pink wings to my flat hat so my family could find me this time. I walked with a cohort of my friends and we sat together, almost dumbfounded that our year of constant and intense work was finally coming to a close. We were all about to be gainfully employed as social workers in different areas of the state and the county, and although we were practically inseparable then, I realize now with sadness that I have lost contact with all of them. Perhaps this is a marker of graduate education…the focus shifts from ourselves to our careers. I have no doubt that the intensity of that time produced what I needed to propel into career leadership. My fondest memory, though, was actually walking out of part of graduation with my dear friend who started not feeling well. She was deeply important and beloved to me, and that was the last day I would see her as she started a new life in Hawaii. This sticks out in my mind for a lot of personal reasons, but also because of the shift to respond to what is needed to support others is a transition of life itself. It is all wrapped up in that day for me, commencing a new perspective on life. This is the graduation ceremony I most wish I could go back to, and to tell us to stop and savor. Savor life. Savor each other.

But life moved ahead with lightening speed.

It was over a decade later when I put on any academic robes again. I purchased my academic regalia before my PhD graduation. No more flat hats and black folded polyester gowns. I was fitted and measured for this vibrant green gown made especially for Washington University. I had been in the audience at graduation every year of my doctoral program. It was like an adrenaline boost for my intellectual curiosity, and as I applauded each of my program colleagues I would remind myself to tenaciously move forward. The PhD is a marathon, and you will only finish if you find inner endurance. I had learned my lessons. I savored every moment of this graduation. I remember the faces of my friends, the presence of my mentors. I remember my spouse and my daughter, who was very young at the time but overjoyed to see all the pomp and circumstance. I had tears in my eyes when I was “hooded” by my dissertation chair. I keep close with her, with other faculty, with my academic peers who shared this experience with me. We are like family with our stories and laughter and tears. This was the commencement into academia, where I still reside. We commenced collegiality.

I relive this emotion every May, now. I am about to put on the academic robes that are part of my professional wardrobe. To affix my eight sided hat and hood. To have the delight of hooding my own graduating students. I laugh with them, I myself tear up. Their journeys commence, and mine continues. And we have the joy of continuing as colleagues moving through this world together. And in this ritual, I savor the fact that our paths have crossed and that I will continue to remain connected and share their successes and challenges.

Endings. Beginnings.

Commencement.

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