Although it has been awhile since my last blog post, I am still thinking about listening.  I would like to think of myself as a good listener, but lately I’ve realized that description is somewhat limited.  I enjoy one-on-one interactions and can usually manage to be present, as long as things are going smoothly.  In large groups, however, or in conversations where I disagree, I am far more uncomfortable and tend to disengage, or walk away, if only mentally.  I recently was taking part in a group discussion about listening and one Sister spoke of “listening to each other and letting the Holy Spirit in.”  I realized that this is exactly the kind of listening I need to work on, in order to remain open to God in my life.

One of the primary ways I learn to listen for the spirit through other people is in Liturgy of the Hours.  I realized this again in a conversation with someone who noted how different our prayers are from other monasteries she had visited.  “They speak so softly,” she noted.  Many monasteries adopt this practice because it allows them to hear the voices of the Sisters around them, disposing them to attentive listening.  Our community also practices this type of listening, but we do so while speaking in our usual voices.  I have always felt that this allows us to practice listening to others in a world that is rarely quiet.  It also teaches us to speak our own truths:  to speak up when necessary and to disagree respectfully, while still hearing the other point of view.

In the past few weeks, I have had several conversations that have not been easy; both in groups and with individuals.  In some of these, I have remembered what I practice daily in liturgy and while the conversation was still uncomfortable, I was willing to stay with it.  While I’m not sure in every instance what the Holy Spirit is trying to tell me, I am working at remaining more open to her presence in other people.

It begins with a simple question, “What do I do now?”  For me, these days, the answer isn’t always easy.  Is my desire to speak up self-serving?  Is my tendency to remain silent wishy-washy?  The larger question is, how do I see God in any given set of circumstances and how do I respond out of love?

These questions seem as though they may be prompted by the larger political situation in the United States.  And sometimes they are.  Many times, however, they are prompted by life in community and the demands of ministry.  How do I respond out of love to the daily needs of my Sisters?  How do I balance those needs with a desire to be of service in the wider world?

Community provides comfort as well as challenge in asking these questions and listening for the answers. 

The more time I spend in community, the more I understand that asking these questions on a daily basis can help transform my response in the wider world.  If I am not willing to consider the needs of the Sister who sits near me in prayer every day, how can I weigh the needs of the student who is asking for help, and how can I even begin to understand the needs of someone I have never met?  If I can’t bring myself to be helpful to someone I see every day, can I really claim to want to help anyone else?

At the moment, I feel as though I have more questions than answers.  For the time being, however, I’m going to try to focus these questions on the people I encounter daily.  My hope is that as I begin to recognize the answers on the small scale, larger answers–or at least a clearer direction–will be revealed.

Although I prefer a hard copy of a book, most of the time I use my tablet for lectio, since it makes it easier to pick up where I left off, especially if I’m not in the same place. 

I have been working lately at my practice of lectio divina.  This traditionally Benedictine method of prayer involves close reading of, and meditation on, the scriptures  While it seems simple enough to sit down every day with the scriptures and listen for the voice of God, I find that many days, the prayer does not go as well as I’d like.  Regardless of how I feel on any given day, however, I am beginning to realize that the daily practice does make a difference in my relationship with God and, hopefully, with other people.

Some days, I find it almost impossible to sit with the scripture for even five or ten minutes.  Even a close reading can be difficult. My mind jumps from one thought to the next, “Oh I know this passage.”  “Must remember to do…..”  “It’s very warm in here and my leg is falling asleep.”

When I do manage to read a passage all the way through with close attention, it is still hard to focus my thought on God’s voice in that passage.  I get distracted by the footnotes, or an historical question.  I wonder why or how this passage came to be included in the Gospel.

Even on days when I do manage to concentrate, lectio is not necessarily a peaceful experience.  Some passages confront me with images of myself that I would rather not see.  I find myself frustrated and arguing with a God who seems to ask more of me than I want–and sometimes feel able–to give.

But, even on days when I finish prayer feeling as though I haven’t concentrated at all–I find that words or phrases from that morning’s passage return to me throughout the day.  These can be comforting or challenging, but never fail to remind me that God is with me.  It is my hope that continued practice of lectio will make me ever more aware of that presence.

The Giving Voice Sisters who traveled to the border for the Convergence, from several different communities, but united in their desire to help immigrants and reform the immigration system

This weekend, October 7-9, the School of the Americas Watch gathered at the US-Mexico border to bring attention to the issues surrounding immigration and to call for the reform of US immigration policies.  I was not present at the Convergence, but thanks to Giving Voice, an organization of fellow young Catholic Sisters, I was able to follow the activities via technology and to stand with those at the border, as well as immigrants world-wide, through prayer.  This network of Sisters brought an issue to my attention and allowed me to take part in a project that is much larger than I could have managed on my own.  In doing so, it has made me once again recognize the interconnectedness of all people and realize the necessity of honoring those connections.

Giving Voice Sisters not only attended the Convergence, but organized an Encuentro, giving space for people to join in prayer and reflection on issues of immigration. 

In the twenty-first century world, many of those connections are virtual.  I’ve never met in person most of the group who were part of this planning process.  Remarkably, we only had one time-zone snafu in setting up our meetings.  Moreover, the commitment to each other and to the cause of immigration reform is no less real for being conducted almost completely over the internet and via cell phone.  As the number of Sisters in individual communities decreases, this use of technology will allow us to maintain our own charisms, and yet to work for justice and peace and remain connected with each other.  It is through these personal connections that I am motivated to work for a common cause such as immigration reform.

Photo courtesy of Sisters of the Presentation of the Blessed Virgin Mary

Photo courtesy of the Sisters of Divine Providence

Giving Voice Sisters and other groups held also prayer services throughout the United States in support of those gathered at the border and in solidarity with all immigrants.

We Sisters utilized these technologies to work for our cause.  Thanks to regular Facebook posts, I, along with a broad network of people, have been able to see photos, read blogs and articles and hear the sounds of the Convergence. Each time I encountered a post this weekend it was a reminder to stop and pray not only for those taking part in the action at the border, but for the immigrants whose lives they are working to change.  A Giving Voice-designed prayer service also allowed the Sisters  in my community and others, many of whom are not on Facebook, to stand in solidarity with these people.  In the work that our group did together for a common cause, each from our own gifts, I caught a glimpse of the future of religious life.

It’s finished!

Early this fall, shortly after the DePaul students came and finished weeding the outdoor labyrinth, I had the idea  to construct a portable labyrinth.  It consists of four pieces of painters’ tarp on which we painted the path for the labyrinth.  I sewed strips of velcro to fix the four large canvases together We can use the labyrinth for meditative prayer when it’s too cold or rainy to use our outdoor labyrinth and I hope to also bring it to other locations for people to use.  Best of all, I enjoyed constructing the labyrinth, almost as much as I look forward to using it!

The first step was to draft the labyrinth.  It is far simpler (has fewer turns) than the one in our backyard which made it easier to measure and to paint.

A friend, seeing this collection of supplies and hearing about my plans to construct a labyrinth with them was somewhat dubious about my plans.  And who can blame her?

Next I drew the measurements for the rings and the turns onto the tarps using chalk and duct tape.

Although I only finished sewing the velcro on the edges after we painted the labyrinth, I began that step early.

This was the step I was dreading.  You can’t see the twine between me and Erin, but I held the twine at a fixed point in the center of the circles while Erin had a piece of chalk tied to the other end.  Holding the twine taut, she crawled around to draw each circle.  Not only was this far easier than I’d thought, but the measurements were sufficiently accurate that this step turned out to be a breeze (at least for me, Erin’s knees are probably still red). 

Erin is justifiably proud of all of the work she did!

I have recently begun weeding the labyrinth again.  I was away for over a week in mid-July and when I returned it was very hard to get back into a routine of outdoor work.  About a week after I came back, I took a group out to show them the labyrinth and thought, “Wow, this looks great!  All the weeds have died and it doesn’t look as though it needs much work at all!”  It wasn’t until last week, when we had a visiting group and the labyrinth was on the “Chicago Catholics Bucket List,” that  I heard the Sister in charge of the grounds say, “but the labyrinth is full of weeds.” So I picked up my bucket and headed back out.

As I knelt in the middle of the labyrinth pulling up large, green, very healthy weeds, I thought, “I’ve been here before.”  As I did earlier this summer, I started to clear the path of weeds, slowly working out from the labyrinth’s center.

Over the last week, I’ve been simultaneously laughing at myself as I weed the same parts of the path I weeded at the beginning of the summer and reflecting on an observation my mother shared with me.  She has been reading, “The Prodigal Wife” by Marcia Willett.  One of the characters in the book notes that the injunction to forgive “Seven times seventy times,” doesn’t mean that we have to forgive that many different sins, but that we have to forgive the same person, the same sin, seven times seventy times.

This practice of coming back to the labyrinth, over and over, for weeding makes me think about my own life and its cycles of hurt and forgiveness. What it is that I have trouble letting go of?  Who hurts me, however, inadvertently, over and over again, that I need to forgive?

It has been quite some time since I have written anything for this blog.  That does not mean, however, that I have not been writing.  I recently completed a manuscript of a book.  I have been working on this book–or at least the archaeological topic on which the book is based–with varying intensity since 1999.  It still needs an introduction and conclusion, and a fair amount of rewriting needs to be done, but the draft of the body of the book is largely complete. It is a huge sense of accomplishment and I’m excited about bringing the project to completion.

Needless to say a book about five thousand year old ceramic fragments from a small site in southeastern Turkey is unlikely to be a best-seller.  As I printed the manuscript, a friend asked, “Who is going to read this book?” which made me realize once again how specialized the subject matter of this book is.  I can’t say I have enjoyed the entire process of writing it.  I managed the hours of data entry only with the help of loud music—to which I often sang along, to the dismay of the people in the office next to mine.  Trying to keep track of all of the different threads of the data meant that I often produced multiple drafts of each individual section before I could weave them together into a coherent whole.

Nor has the process gone exactly the way I had planned.  When I was hired to begin the project, I–and I suspect my boss–thought it was a one to two year job.  As we began the work, we thought we knew where it would lead us, what the data would tell us.  Much of that turned out to be incomplete; and the process of analysis and write up forced me to clarify my thoughts.  In some cases, our assumptions were downright incorrect; but this lead me to a much more rigorous methodology in order to be very clear about the patterns which are actually present among the ceramics at the site.

I feel vaguely guilty about all of the paper it took to print this out, but it had reached the stage where it was necessary to see the manuscript as a complete entity. 

At times, I was not sure I’d ever be able to see this project through to completion–and at times I was honestly not sure that I wanted to!  By continuing to work on it day by day, though, I was able to produce a piece of worthwhile work.

In the end, I realize working on this project was akin to being a young woman entering religious life! We begin something new in our lives, often not knowing exactly how things will turn out. In the case of both this book and my own Benedictine vocation, I have had to trust in God, knowing God is with me day by day on a road to something bigger than I could ever dream. In the beginning, I may not have known what the path would look like in its entirety, but I knew that God would be with me for every step—and chapter—of the journey.

“Thanks for putting up with us!” A boy of about seven yelled this to me as I walked past him on my way out of the park.  I had left the house to write a reflection piece.  The lake was right in front of me, a playground was right behind me and I had seen evidence of a day camp before I sat down.  Soon, the boys from the day camp appeared, first one and then a few more. I had been trying not to smile at them, since they were playing hide-and-seek and I didn’t want to give their hiding spots away.  I had not thought of what I was doing as “Putting up with…” I had enjoyed the view and the thudding feet of the children playing as I finished a draft of my reflection, so I was a bit startled by this boy’s comment.

The lake in front of me…

…and the playground behind.

It has stuck with me though, this offhand remark. “Thanks for putting up with us!”  Every time it pops into my head I find myself wondering, “Who did I offend or upset or even just ignore and not notice?  Who did I fail to thank for helping me out? Who deserves some gratitude for not snapping at me, whether or not I deserved it? ”  I finally realized that it’s another way of understanding my Lenten practice from earlier this year of fasting from ignoring people.  Not only do I have to see other people and their needs, but I have to see myself and the ways, some small, some large, that my behavior may affect them negatively.

So to that little boy, and to many of the people I encounter every day, I say, “Thanks for putting up with me!”

I am making slow, but steady progress on the labyrinth.  I have more or less succeeded in spending about an hour there every day pulling weeds.  I started in the center of the labyrinth and am following the trail outward to the beginning. I try to do one section per day.  By my reckoning I am just over 1/4 of the way done with the path.  Most days, it is solitary work–I have spent several hours in prayer and meditation, trying to focus on how I feel God moving in my life daily, as I move forward slowly.  A few days, however, have been different, and in reflecting on them, I realize that they also show how God is moving in my life.

One Sunday, as I went out, I encountered Dan Raven, who built the labyrinth and who entertained me with stories about the process of building labyrinths as I weeded.  Shortly thereafter, a woman came to walk the labyrinth.  Less than a week later, I met Sr. Kathleen’s niece and her niece as they wandered the grounds.  Both of them remarked on how much work I had done.  It’s fun to realize that in fact my work is paying off and is visible to other people.

I’ve also, more startlingly, had people stop and help.  Last week, Dottie Andries, an Oblate of the community pulled out all of the tall weeds, which makes a vast improvement.  And this afternoon as I knelt among a particularly weedy patch, a man I had never seen before approached and asked if he could help. He proceeded to sit down in the dirt and spend well over half an hour clearing weeds. He had stopped by to walk the grounds, seen me, and decided to help instead.

I have been thinking of weeding the labyrinth as a prayer practice; this afternoon it occurred to me that the appearance of these unexpected people must also become part of my relationship with God. If my first reaction to be interrupted is irritation, what does that say about my relationship with God?  Am I willing to let these interruptions–not just while I’m weeding, but throughout my day–be a way that I recognize God in my life?  Hopefully, as I continue to work in the labyrinth, I can be more open not only to finding God inside of myself, but in other people.

We have a labyrinth in the backyard of the monastery.  I often introduce groups that I host at the monastery to its prayer practice.  This spring, I discovered that a few of the people who had first walked the labyrinth with retreat or prayer groups I had invited to the monastery, have returned several times to walk it themselves.  They find walking the labyrinth to be a fruitful form of meditative prayer.

We’ve had a cool, wet spring and the weeds have thrived along with everything else that is green!

While I rarely walk the labyrinth myself, this summer, I am returning to a practice that I began last summer that I find to be a form of meditative prayer: weeding the labyrinth.  I rarely manage to spend more than two hours a week at the work and often not even that, and occasionally I wonder whether I’m actually making any difference in the amount of weeds.  My goal this summer is to spend enough time at it on a regular basis that I’m not sore for two days afterwards!

I put in just over half an hour this afternoon and barely managed to remove most of the weeds from the center of the labyrinth. 

Yet despite the apparent futility of the task, I find it to be a very meditative practice.  Most of the work that I do is non-physical and being out in the sun, getting my fingernails dirty, and filling buckets with weeds gives me a sense of accomplishment. After sitting at a computer for much of the day, being outside can help wake me up and regain my focus.  Since the work of weeding is mostly mindless, it allows me to let go of my thoughts; and I usually feel physically better and mentally more alert when I have spent time weeding. So this summer, my mediation will not be done walking, but on my hands and knees in the labyrinth.