Seeking Wisdom

HAPPY EASTER SEASON EVERYONE! The rising cycle of the Paschal Mystery is upon us now as we celebrate for fifty days (until Pentecost). Doesn’t it feel glorious? My bearded irises, calla lilies, rose bushes, and geraniums are blooming. Along with Jesus, all the earth has risen to new life. Likewise, my engagement with Lent has ended and now I am joyfully embracing this Spring season with a renewed and intentional gusto. I began on Holy Saturday by making traditional Easter bread for my family to share, a sacramental gesture of gratitude for the gift of the resurrection.

I have been baking bread for fifty years–for holidays, special occasions, and little presents for bread lovers. My fascination with the whole process started because my mother baked bread and simply, I loved to eat it! It was crusty on the outside and sweetly tender on the inside. Even the best bakery in town could not compete with it. Spread with butter and jam or peanut butter, it never lasted more than one day at our house. When I moved far away from home after I married, baking bread was one of the first culinary adventures I undertook. As simple as the ingredients are, the process was one I learned to respect. From the mixing of flour, yeast, and warm liquids, there was kneading, and diligent waiting for the dough to rise before baking. The end result still seems to me like a little miracle.

These days, it is important not only to look for little “resurrection” miracles but to participate in them as well. The world situation can be infinitely depressing if we cannot see through lugubrious situations with a mystic’s eyes, with a “faith that looks through death,” as the poet wrote so long ago. In Christianity, what looks like death/defeat is really life/victory. Every moment is paradoxically meaningful when we rise from our banal, cynical, false self tendencies. In essence, the resurrection teaches us that holding the tensions of life can be endured with the gentle hope of rising again.

Everyone “ooohed” and “ahhed” when they beheld the loaves of Easter bread set as the centerpiece of our family table on Sunday. In between my grandchildren’s egg hunts and the many lures of peeps, chocolate bunnies, and jelly beans, we tacitly became the Body of Christ when we broke bread together and humbly remembered why we gather on Easter in the first place. Rising to the occasion, we were aglow with bonds of generational love that we then streamed out into a world in need. I hope you felt it.

The drama of Holy Week always takes my breath away, beginning with the gospel story that recounts the scene of Jesus’ triumphant entry into Jerusalem. Suddenly, the Messianic secret is out and everyone enjoys a collaborative “epiphany moment,” with the realization of Christ’s true identity. The apostles are appalled when a huge mob crying “hosanna” and waving palms in homage follows Jesus, riding on a donkey, into the center of the city. Peter, James, and John must have been wringing their hands in worry. The last time they were there, people nearly lynched Jesus. Making a big fuss would most certainly put them all in harm’s way. But when the apostles tried to quiet the crowd, Jesus protested saying that if they were silenced, the very stones would cry out!

Jesus’ reference to stones crying out always gets to me. I have “a thing” about rocks anyway, as most of my friends know. These solid, inanimate objects speak to me especially when I walk on the beach. Heart-shaped rocks leap out like valentines. Smooth white pebbles gleam like peppermint jelly beans. Turquoise, orange, and copper-hued stripes shine brightly when drenched with saltwater. This time of year, they look like Easter eggs and I fill my pockets full. I know God has lots of rocks and does not mind if I relocate a few to the Medicine Wheel prayer circle in my backyard or give them away to friends who also appreciate what lies in plain sight beneath our feet.

Sometimes big boulders even cry out “hosanna” as seen in this photo I took of three perfect white crosses that seemingly appeared out of nowhere. When folks express worry that our world is trying to erase the Holy One’s presence, I assure them not to be fearful. The Creator will not be silenced. If you don’t believe me, read the gospel for Palm Sunday. We have the word of Jesus on this topic.

The Triduum (three days preceding Easter) is in our sight now. I am easing into these momentous celebrations with eager anticipation and calm. Usually, this is the busiest, most stressful time of year for me. But now that I am retired from professional church ministry, I am happily anticipating the celebration of the Paschal Mystery in a new and different way. On Holy Thursday, I will wash and kiss the feet of folks in need. On Good Friday, I will ritually pour out lamentations for this suffering world and venerate the cross with like-minded friends. On Holy Saturday, I will bake Easter bread and wait at home, tomb-like, for our family celebration on Sunday, another glorious resurrection amidst the messiness of life. All the while, my ears will be attuned to the subtle whispers of the stones, flowers, plants, and ocean, that fill my soul to the brim with everlasting hosannas.

Since March of 2020, the reality of death has been literally in our faces every single day as we constantly engage with the tragic pandemic stories on the news. Yet, coronavirus is not the only reminder of our mortality. There are natural disasters, school shootings, fatal accidents, other diseases, and most recently, the war in Ukraine to remind us that life on this side of the veil is fragile. While we live with the certainty that no one gets out of this alive, most of us remain in denial, shocked at the death toll, believing somehow that we are all supposed to die peacefully in our sleep at age 100. In reality, this is an uncommon experience and found nowhere in Scripture.

The Gospel for the Fifth Week of Lent, Cycle A (the RCIA readings), the story of the Raising of Lazarus leads us ever more deeply into the mystery of life, sickness, death and resuscitation. This confounding narrative could be the source of a lifelong “lectio divina,” there are so many quirky details. Lazarus and Jesus are best friends, something we did not really know much about before this story. Lazarus falls fatally ill (think of someone in ICU with Covid) and although Jesus is told to come right away, he takes his sweet time getting there. Lazarus is dead and in the tomb three days before Jesus finally arrives. He seems utterly surprised, weeps copiously, and then performs perhaps his greatest miracle: he calls Lazarus back to life. The story ends there but I always wonder what Lazarus said to Jesus at dinner that night.

A happy ending to the finality of death is also at the heart of the Paschal Mystery with the resurrection of Jesus. Holy Week is coming soon and we will be plunged again into pondering why Jesus chose to endure enormous suffering, horrendous torture, and humiliating execution before he spends three days in a tomb and is resurrected. I never look forward to walking through the gulf of grief and lamentations on Good Friday and Holy Saturday but by Easter Sunday, I am always grateful for this sacred journey, fraught with lessons about dying for love and holding the many sorrows of everyday living.

This past week, I attended the musical “The Secret Garden” produced by the young thespians at Santa Margarita High School. Like many of you no doubt, I had read the book by Frances Hodgson Burnett when I was very young and had always loved the story. Since the play’s Broadway debut in 1991, I had longed to see the theatrical adaptation on stage and was not disappointed by this stellar production. (I am always astonished by these talented young artists!) As the story goes, the unresolved grief in a family locks the door to beauty, preventing the living and the dead to move on. Then, quite by accident, a lonely, grief-stricken little girl with resilience and tenacity, finds the key that opens the door to a secret garden that has grown fallow. Love awakens the dormant plants, brings technicolor to the flowers, and heals the brokenhearted. Out of death, life comes forth, unbound, like Lazarus, alive again; like all who make their peace with the cycle of death and rebirth.

Oftentimes, when sickness or death invades life, people of faith question how those without spiritual inclinations can endure its ravishing effects. How indeed? Right at the top of my list of spiritual questions for God has always been the same one: Why do we (or anything really) have to die? Only in the silence of meditation each day can I even begin to release such queries and embrace the birthless, deathless Christ who lives hidden inside the secret garden of each human soul. Only then am I surrounded by the communion of saints and angels, still with us, alive again in every remembrance.

During this Fourth Week of Lent, I am confronted once again with the story of The Man Born Blind in John’s gospel. Blind from birth, Jesus anoints this man’s eyes with a saliva-mud formula, an instant cure. Word gets back to the religious authorities who immediately interrogate everyone about how this happened but no one can explain it, even the blind man himself who simply says, “I once was blind but now I see.” Don’t you wonder what happened to this unamed man after all the hoopla died down? Did he become a disciple? What was it like for him to have both his physical and spiritual eyes open? I like to think he was changed for good but knowing human nature, I wonder.

Spiritual blindness is an ongoing problem for us. This is obvious when we simply listen to the news media, pay attention to the political drama, or experience the after-effects of the pandemic. The irony is, we are ego-centric and thus do not readily see our own blind spots. Most of the time, we miss critical turning points until other people, continual suffering, or crisis open our eyes to our complicity. Even then, why we do the things we do is easily rationalized.

During this time of Lenten scrutiny, I challenge myself and those I guide to try to identify spiritual blindspots. “But if I am blind to them, how can I name them?” is a sincere and important question many seekers ask. Not your fault! Learning to see the world from God’s vantage point is not often taught in a very practical way by priests, teachers, and theologians. If you are new to this, take heart, there is a way. According to a book and podcast by Brian MacLaren,* we have to re-learn how to see and this journey begins by identifying human biases. And there are many. I will name five and then hope you will read the rest of the book and/or listen to the podcast episodes. Think of 5 “C” words: confirmation (not the sacrament), complexity, community, complementarity, and contact.

Confirmation bias happens when I welcome information that confirms what I already think and resist information that disturbs or contradicts my view. If I have been convinced, for example, that vaccinating for Covid is the best possible cure for everyone, then any information that confirms my viewpoint is welcomed but when presented with expert testimony that questions or doubts my opinion, I will quickly reject the position as false, sometimes without any consideration.

Complexity bias happens because the human brain prefers a simple lie to complex truth. “It’s more complex!” I often hear myself saying when my grandchildren make general statements like “All religion is evil,” or “All politicians are crooks.” We like to boil every situation down to the least common denominator so we do not have to grapple with the confounding particularities of a moral problem.

Community bias makes it hard to see somthing your group doesn’t want you to see. No one likes to be “the cheese standing alone” in the midst of people you love or call family. Easier to go along with the group than going against it. We live with moral loneliness all the time and that’s not a comfortable place to be.

Complementarity bias happens regularly: if people are nice to you, you’ll be open to what they see and have to say. If they aren’t nice to you, you won’t. I know you get the idea because this bias begins in kindergarten.

Contact bias is easier to recognize–if you lack contact with someone, you won’t see what they see. This is the basis of most prejudicial bahavior. If we never bother to get to know the Muslim family down the street, we have no idea what they have experienced, what they do or think.

No one has 20/20 spiritual vision, not even the most holy among us. Yet, this is no excuse not to clean our lenses, or agree to have a spiritual cataract removed with grace, the laser of the soul. I personally do not like living with my biases, of which there are many, but am willing to be anointed with the healing serum of Christ. I wish it would be an instant cure, as in the case of Man Born Blind. I can only hope the the Divine Physician gives me more patience with others. In any case, I will continue to lean into the deeper meaning when I loudly sing: “I once was blind but now I see.”

*Brian MacLaren’s Podcast: https://cac.org/podcast/learning-how-to-see/page/2/

I cannot remember the first year that water bottles became ubiquitous companions of seemingly everyone from preschoolers to senior citizens. Today, designer flasks, which are larger and more insulated for freshness, have replaced plastic (better for the environment and our health). Apparently, no one may leave the house, even for short trips to the grocery store, without access to hydration. When did we citizens of the world become so thirsty?

Heading into the third week of Lent has always raised this question. For decades, I accompanied seekers of Catholicism in the RCIA process. Lent is a very intense time for them, especially when they participate in the Scrutinies, ancient exorcism rituals, on the third, fourth, and fifth Sundays. Special stories from the Gospel of John given them rich archetypes and themes to apply to their lives. The first of these stories about the Samaritan Woman (aka the Woman at the Well) focuses on her deep, unseen thirst for a better, more meaningful life. She hides this spiritual thirst from everyone, except Jesus, who she unexpectedly encounters when she is drawing water from Jacob’s well at the hottest time of the day. Jesus is just passing through and has sent his apostles into town to get take-out while he rests. He intentionally positions himself so he can talk to this outcast about his well of “living water” which will never leave her thirsty. She ecstatically abandons her bucket of water and runs to tell everyone her good news, completely satiated by the love flowing from someone who actually saw what she was really craving.

Last week, my nineteen-year-old grandson and I spent the day together. He graduated high school in the Spring of 2020 when everything was shut down and has spent the first two years of college online. A natural introvert, he adapted well to the confines of his Zoom classes but recently confessed to me that he is bored now and feeling restless to get out more. Since he had expressed interest, I invited him to accompany me to the Laguna Beach Art Museum. As we meandered through the exhibits, I could see how thirsty he was for in-person experiences and was delighted by his thoughtful comments. When we left the museum, he was also drawn into the magnificent view of the coastline, the allure of the ocean, the tidepools below and the white waves hitting the shoreline. My heart broke a little when he disclosed that he missed the ocean and could not remember when he had last been there. After a quick lunch in Dana Point, we headed for the beach, just to gaze and breathe in the salty scent of natural living water. My eyes stung with tears (I hid these from him), the holy water of the Spirit, as I reveled in this rare moment shared between grandmother and grandson.

Perhaps the water bottles that have become part of our daily lives can remind us that our spirits need be hydrated as much as our bodies do, especially as we emerge from the pandemic and engage with the world again. The young need the old. The old need the young. We are parched and continually thirsty for one another. We both need to drink from the well of living water which naturally flows in abundance from the tributary of Love. Like the Samaritan Woman at the Well, only these personal encounters with the Living Christ, rising from being present to one another, can and will satiate our deepest thirsts.

The Second Week of Lent is upon us and “it’s good that we are here,” according to Peter after experiencing the Transfiguration. What an understatement! Kind of like saying “I enjoyed it” after being awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. I always wonder what lingered in the memories of Peter, James, and John after that incredible vision of Elijah, Moses, and the resurrected Christ. Surely keeping it a secret was a joke. That unexpected glimpse into the spiritual realm must have permanently altered their vision, just like any authentic experience of the divine, even the smallest of transfigurations.

On cue every spring at the beginning of March, the bare wisteria vine that grows outside my kitchen window suddenly blooms with delicate, fragrant, and liturgically correct purple blooms. Every year I am transfixed watching the flowers multiply at an astonishing pace. I planted that vine myself many years ago so that I would have something to gaze at while I cooked and did the dishes. Despite the awareness that spring is near, that the dead-looking vine is teeming with life, I am always startled when these sweet blossoms beckon me outside to stand agog at this ordinary but marvelous transfiguration.

Experiences of the divine are also revealed in the lives of those around me. I communicate by text almost daily with my close friend, Fr. Jim Ries. He recently retired as pastor of Our Lady of Fatima parish in San Clemente. Now he lives in Oceanside, close to San Luis Rey Mission, in a mobile home he completely remodeled to accommodate his disabilities. Fr. Jim has a degenerative nerve disease called “Charcot-Marie-Tooth” and is permanently confined to a wheelchair. Friends for many years, I remember when he nimbly walked and rode a bike, discerned his vocation, attended seminary, and his ordination to the priesthood. We remained close during all of his assignments as a servant priest and pastor in the Diocese of Orange. Jim has spent nearly every holiday with my family, a “little brother” to me, an “uncle” to my kids, a sports-on-TV sidekick with my husband, a jokester at the dinner table with my extended family friends. All along, Jim knew what was in store, that his body would slowly decline, but that never deterred him from living abundantly.

Fr. Jim sees moments of transfiguration even in his own sufferings, of which there have been many. About two weeks ago, right in time for Lent, he fell and broke his leg, a major setback for him. While I screamed at God over the unfairness, Fr. Jim accepted the week-long hospital stay and many months ahead of physical therapy with his usual calm good nature and courage. He revels in the little victories of sleeping through the night and watching televised sports from his recliner now that he is back at home. He says he is offering up his sufferings, picking up his cross, and following Jesus for the salvation of the world.

I marvel at Jim’s resilience and quiet piety. Even though I have learned to see transfiguration in the ordinariness of a spring day, like my blooming wisteria vine, I am hard-pressed when it comes to suffering. I still have a lot to learn about the Paschal Mystery although I am repeatedly transfigured by its truth and beauty, drawn into deep caverns of meaning, and comforted by the cycles of renewal it promises.

Visions of the dazzling white garments of Jesus in transfigured moments come and go quickly for most of us ordinary pilgrims on the spiritual journey. Yet we can anchor these little manifestations in our memories and resolve to stay awake enough to see more. At the oddest moments, when the heart surges with gratitude, Peter’s voice may arise and remind us that indeed, “it’s good that we are here.” Then, like the apostles, we descend the mountain to spread that good news.

The First Sunday of Lent every year focuses on Jesus’ temptations in the desert. It’s a mythological tale that most Christians with basic formation know. Jesus fasts for forty days and nights and then, just when he’s ready to return from his retreat, the devil appears and tempts him with three very human desires: power, prestige, and possessions. Not only does Jesus not give in, but he also defeats the enemy by engaging his strong will and acute biblical rhetoric. I always want to yell “touché” when the devil slinks off defeated and Jesus is comforted by angels.

After listening to this gospel at mass on Sunday, the topic of temptation has occupied my thoughts. Like everyone, I have had many temptations in my life, some I gave into, some I resisted, others I simply observed with obsequious detachment. No longer wrestling with the devil at my age, I do still wrestle with God, almost every day, in fact. There are so many mysteries and paradoxes, so many confounding situations in our Christ-soaked world. I am tempted to lose my temper, change my sanguine nature, ditch my contemplative commitment to nonviolence, especially when I ponder world news each day. So much gloom and doom have tempted us to give in to depression, anxiety, and a host of other apathetic stances. Resisting these more subtle temptations has been far more difficult than we ever knew.

I watched “60 Minutes” this week and their report about the people of Ukraine brought tears of rage and sadness to my entire being. An overwhelming temptation to engage headlong into the conflict and DO SOMETHING engulfed me. I absurdly entertained thoughts of what it would be like to be in physical combat, forcibly resisting the oppression. The compassion of the Polish people on the train platform made me want to get on the next plane and join their efforts to take care of the vulnerable. Let’s be real, I silently told myself. I cannot engage either of these temptations. I am an older American woman committed to nonviolence who has no power or prestige on world stages.

Late last night, I had a long conversation with a soul friend. She talked about her fears of another world war. I told her we had to stay detached from these gut-wrenching thoughts and the temptation to believe we cannot defeat evil except with violence. When we hung up, I wondered if I had said the right thing. Was I telling her NOT to engage with the faces of those beautiful children and mothers on the trains, the resolute ones staying behind to fight? Just stop reading editorials and watching the news?  Move into blissful ignorance and not think too deeply? While I was only trying to help assuage her anxiety, apathy is not the answer, of course, when it comes to temptations.

So what else can I do? I can (and will) write a check and send it to the Ukrainian Relief Efforts. I have, after all, a wealth of possessions that sometimes possess me way too much. Yet my conscience sneers at this paltry solution. Simply sending cash is too easy and will not untether me from the deeper conflicts within my spirit. Every day, I turn to prayer, always my go-to solution for everything, even though sometimes these efforts never seem like enough.

In the end, I ask myself, “What is the spiritual response to these nagging temptations that constantly peck at the hard shell of my well-ordered life?  Rebuking the devil is also not enough, as Jesus showed us in the gospel story. The paradox of living in this on-going war between good and evil begs us to hold the tension of this world resolutely enough to slake temptations and gently enough to allow the restoration of angels.

According to prolific writer and theologian, Fr. Ron Rolheiser, we should always view the world as we look upon the scene at Calvary: Jesus hanging in between two thieves. From a distance, you cannot tell which is which. Closer, we see that Christ is with us in the human drama of struggle, suffering, sweating blood, and dying for love. The scene is not simply a remembrance of what happened two thousand years ago, but is real today–Christ is riding on those trains with the refugees, fighting for peace and freedom with both the Ukrainian and Russian people. On both their sides.

Perhaps the best response for us who are far away from the conflict is to keep the faith and resist the temptation to think we have been forsaken or abandoned. It always astonishes me how the Good, alive inside us, quickly appears when the chips are down. The whole world is reaching out to the people of Ukraine, coming to their aid with immense, unfathomable love. When tempted to do good, the Christ in us arises, surprises, and sustains all who are in need. Seeking the wisdom place, let us unite in solidarity with all who are affected by war and be comforted by the enormous display of empathy flowing into the world.

The birds are singing again in my backyard. They are not in full force yet but are daily gaining momentum, right on time and right in tune with the coming of the warmer weather and the season of spring in all its glory. The earth is preparing to tilt on its axis more toward the sun just like the rest of us, longing for a release from the shorter chilly nights and gray skies of winter. The familiar signs are all around us on this Fat Tuesday or Mardi Gras. Tomorrow is Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent, one of the busiest days on the Church calendar.

I am always intrigued that people of all walks of life, even those not particularly religious, are drawn to this time of fasting, abstinence, and repentance right before Spring is officially sprung in nature. (Did you know that the word “Lent” actually means spring?) Ashes are black, like dirt, and applied to the forehead as a crude little door into the cluttered and anxious mind. We are “adam,” made of mud, and will all return to mud someday, somewhere. This primitive ritual reminds us of our fragility, our need to be prepared and ready for anything to happen.

We seem to possess an innate sense that in order for something new to take root and grow within the soul, the soil of the spirit has to be tended to like a garden when the earth has to carefully be loosened, fertilized, and watered. This garden metaphor has resonated through my consciousness on a low frequency for decades although March 2022 seems somehow different from the past two years.

When Lent began in 2020, the Covid-19 lockdown launched two weeks later. I had already written a Lenten booklet entitled “Abide,” which I found interestingly prophetic. What else could we do during the lockdown? In 2021, the booklet was entitled “Emerge,” based on the hope vaccines offered to end the pandemic. Alas, emerging waxed and waned. Delta and Omicron forced us into learning more tough lessons about tenacity and fear. After the winter siege, life is opening up again. Even mandatory mask-wearing in schools is ending.

As Lent begins yet again, I have chosen to focus on the word “engage,” despite my heightened awareness of the threat of viral strains. Now that I am a grandmother of nine, retired, and in my seventh decade of life, every day feels like a gift wrapped in the colors of sunsets, the light shimmering over the water of the Pacific, and the purple flowers beginning to show themselves on the wisteria outside my kitchen window. The inner voice urges me to engage now with all the energy I can muster. No more “waiting it out,” like someone in a perpetual rainstorm. Time to charge into life full force, splashing in puddles, unafraid of being drenched, and taking delight in every drop of water inside my shoes. No more denying myself like a monastic, not this Lent of 2022. This will be a Lent of engagement, spontaneity, and opening to whatever life has to offer.

For many years, I went by the motto, “fast now, feast later.” On this Fat Tuesday, Mardi Gras of 2022, I plan to do just the opposite and will “feast now and fast later.” The feast will be on Beauty, Truth, and Goodness, which flows effortlessly from the Source of All Love. I will try to engage more with this Love and stream it to the Ukrainian people, to world leaders in Russia and Washington, to the forgotten and marginalized who have no voice, to my Church, community, neighborhood, family, and friends. Just maybe, like the butterfly effect, this Lenten engagement will be a small catalyst for the garden of life to bring forth an everlasting metanoia of both hearts and minds.

It is February and true to form, the Oscar nominations were just announced. To film lovers like me, this is always a momentous occasion. Every year my curiosity is piqued by the list of films the “Academy” nominates, especially for the “Best Picture” category. Predictably, some nominees do not surprise me, but each year I am challenged by other choices and stymied by films I have never heard of prior to the announcement.  I set out then and there to see as many of the films on the list as possible. Even with streaming, now that the number of nominees has been expanded to ten, this is no easy (or cheap) task.

Isn’t this a superficial endeavor? Why do I bother with the films that seem to go against my spiritual aesthetics? Crazy as it may seem, I have a passion for seeking God in the most unlikely places. Hollywood fits the bill.

This year’s list is really challenging because I have only seen five of the ten nominees so far (West Side Story, The Power of the Dog, Coda, Dune, and Don’t Look Up). Although I only have about a month to find and watch the others, I am determined.  Maybe you would like to join me?

If you have never analyzed movies for spiritual content before, here’s my shortlist of what to look for, tied into the Christian Paschal Mystery. Remember, these themes can be found in both drama and comedy although they can be very submerged or disguised.

1. Incarnation – Are there Christ characters? Look carefully. Sometimes the Christ is very hidden! In what way is a character Christ-like?  Who opposes the Christ figure(s) and how is this opposition portrayed?
2. Suffering – What is the main struggle in the film? Who takes on suffering courageously and who becomes bitter or callous? What characters or circumstances inflict, prolong or alleviate suffering?
3. Death – What kinds of death are portrayed (physically, psychologically, spiritually)? Who or what dies and how? Why do these deaths occur? What feelings are evoked in you from the death scenes?
4. Resurrection – What characters and circumstances promote a sense of redemption from conflict, suffering or death? Warming: redemption themes might be very subtle.
5. Ascension – Is there a sense of letting go in the film? Of ascending to a new reality after the conflict is resolved?  Perhaps the absence of ascension makes this point better than resolution of it.
6. Pentecost – Does a new way of being, thinking, living occur in the film? Or the prospect of one? Or is hope thwarted by the actions (or inactions) of others?

Uncovering these themes in film has informed, enriched, and enlightened my wisdom journey. Besides all that, I take great delight in the stories and the way modern filmmakers choose to portray them in such creative ways. An antidote to negative criticism of modern culture, this is a way to connect with the Christ who continues to speak to us here and now, through every possible medium.

I welcome your commments. . .

In my spiritual quest for solitude and silence, I have become increasingly sensitive to and intolerant of noise pollution. Loud voices. Doors slamming. Talk radio and television commercials blaring. And most of all, gardeners with their blaring weed-whackers and leaf blowers. I can tolerate the mowers but whatever happened to old-fashioned raking and week pulling? I wince sometimes at the rant inside my head that vehemently berates this generation’s lack of courtesy and awareness of others. Although this indignation may be righteous, I learned recently that an attitude adjustment was in order if I truly want to become the “wise elder” I seek to be.

Although we have a large yard, my husband and I do not have a gardening service anymore. We installed artificial turf in the backyard a few years ago because of the drought and although I still have fifteen rosebushes, beds of succulents, and many potted plants, we find it therapeutic to tend to them ourselves. We are apparently in the minority on our block. Almost every day, gardeners in big trucks arrive and the noise recital begins from morning until late afternoon: first mowers, then loud radios, voices, weed-eaters, and finally, those ear-piercing leaf blowers. Stymied from any possibility for quiet meditation,. I put on my noise-canceling Air Pods and play Gregorian chant to block out the cacophony.

Last week, when I rounded the corner on my daily walk, I came face-to-face with my neighbor’s gardener. He was mindlessly blowing their leaves and yard debris into my flowerbed which I had just painstakingly weeded and watered. I stood like a warrior poised for battle in the middle of my sidewalk. Immediately, he turned off the blower and reassured me he would clean up the mess he had made in my yard straight away. This was my chance, I thought, and struck up a conversation with him about leaf blowers and noise and why sending so much dust into the atmosphere was necessary. Above his mask, his eyes looked careworn and tired. He told me that he hated the blowers, too, and showed me the earplugs he wore to decrease the literally deafening decibels that bombarded him his whole workday. Up to him, he would get rid of his machine but circumstances did not allow such a luxury because, without it, he simply could not compete.

We talked about his daily schedule. He said he covered a 50-mile radius, 10 hours a day, 6 days a week, approximately 30 minutes at each house. I quickly did the calculations – so that meant doing 10-15 residences a day? He nodded. Even if he wanted to rake leaves instead of blowing them into the street, he did not have time. Cutting back was not an option. He had a big family who depended on him. Without using these loud tools, his livelihood would be drastically diminished. Moreover, he could not pay his nephew (the assistant standing sheepishly at a distance) who was taking online college classes. I suddenly felt very small and thanked him for talking to me. I knew he had to get going if he was going to beat the clock.

I sat on my front porch step and forced myself to listen to this gentle man’s leaf blower but now it sounded more like some weird neo-classical music that my untrained mind heretofore could not appreciate. After packing up the tools, he smiled and waved to me as they drove away. I waved back, surrounding him with love and light, my go-to intercessory prayer practice. I felt a little like Thomas Merton when he was pierced with love for the people on the street corner in Louisville. Agape (the love of God) is like that – unconditional, no strings attached, a gift of grace, spontaneous, epiphanous, descending when least expected, shattering brick and mortar, pettiness and self-righteousness. Agape cracks open the dusty doors of the heart with simply a few minutes of human contact.

Today, we celebrate St. Valentine’s Day and I plan to leave some heart cookies in a tin for my neighbor’s gardener. He and his nephew might enjoy the unexpected treat. Unbeknown to them, they helped my heart expand to embrace the totality of human experience, full of silence–and noise.