Praise Creates the World

I hear it this morning: the praise of rain. If you are a Texas friend of mine, you hear it this morning: the lament of moisture-empty air. I myself put down a book to reach for my daughter when she came in the room a few moments ago, so I could show her my delight... that she is here, a gift to me and to the world.

We are made for praise. And it springs from our response to God's creations.

Chapter 2 of Ravished by Beauty explores the intertwined role of humankind, earth, and its creatures in responding to God—either in praise of his providence through Nature, or in lament of the brokenness of Creation.

It was fascinating to read of Calvin's ideas about the world as God's theater, where we are treated to visions of God's beauty and power and tender love. A theater, however, is not complete without an audience. We are that audience. But not we alone. The trees clap their hands, the deer pants for water... desiring God's power in providing it.

We can ignore God's gifts, God's own delight in Creation and our part in preserving it. To do so, Calvin says, is "to burn the book [of nature] which our Lord has shown us, wittingly undermining the order he has established in nature by playing the butcher in killing the defenseless bird with our own hands..."

One of the more interesting ideas Belden Lane proposed as an outflow of these concepts was not just that we stop hurting the earth and its creatures (for it and they are our cohorts in praise), but that we also seek ways to incorporate them into our liturgies. He asks...

"What have we to learn from wilderness retreats and gardens of prayer, outdoor labyrinths...and fruits and vegetables...brought to the communion table on Sundays and shared with the poor?"

I was also reminded of something I discovered when researching for God in the Yard: some church communities of long ago used to release birds during their services, as a symbol of Divine presence and Spirit. Short of doing this, I suppose we could simply hold services sometimes out-of-doors (and not just at sunrise on Easter Sunday).

In all, the point is praise. For One who sustains the world by his own delight, and, according to Calvin, relies on our delight as an echo, in a partnership of continued creation.

Calvin in the Yard?

Over at Amazon today, I noticed one of the reviews of God in the Yard. It's subject line:

A New Kind of Spiritual Discipline.

I guess it can feel that way. Sitting out in the yard, taking in the gifts of nature (even the mosquitoes, yes :). It can feel like a new thing, to the modern Christian accustomed to a pietistic approach.

It even felt new to me—when I sat under stars in snow or rain—since I come from a church that emphasizes intellectual devotion and abstraction over Creation, the senses, and experience.

You can imagine how fascinated I was this morning, then, to read of the dual-thinking of Calvin and the Puritans, on matters of nature, desire, and even ecology. I hadn't known much about Calvin except the doctrine of predestination. This, I discovered, is owed to some of the theologians who came after him, as they emphasized one side of his ideas over the other.

The best way to share with you my fascination about the lesser-known side of Calvin is to share some of the quotes from Calvin and the Puritans, that were included in Chapter 1 of Ravished by Beauty: The Surprising Legacy of Reformed Spirituality.


William Lawson, on gardening as an aid to spiritual reflection:

"pause with your selfe, and view the end of all your labours in an Orchard: unspeakable pleasure, and infinite commodity"


Nathaniel Ward, Puritan pastor, in a code of laws for the Massachusetts colony:

"No man shall exercise any Tiranny or Crueltie towards any bruite Creature which are usuallie kept for man's use"


John Calvin

"What a pleasure it is to dive into the secrets of nature.... What a deal of the majesty of the great Creator doth shine in the face of this fabric of the world!"

"If I now seek to despoil the land of what God has given it to sustain human beings, then I am seeking as much as I can to do away with God's goodness."


These are not isolated quotes, but just a few of many that Belden C. Lane shares. His discussion is a beautiful balance of thought that might fascinate you too—whether you're sitting at the desk or in the yard.

And What of Boredom?

Is there something of the human spirit that follows a certain path of the soul, even without direction from Tradition?

I am thinking there must be.

Or, if one prefers, it might be said that the Spirit of God, either overtly or through the "way things are" works to carry us along a certain spiritual and creative way.

Chapter 5 of A Sunlit Absence speaks of the necessity of boredom, noting that it can produce "a posture of release and receptivity" and an ultimate deepening through "creative disintegration."

It goes on to say that the person may experience prayer and solitude as "futile, a great waste of time, that we are going nowhere." This is an important step to deeper prayer, where we "grow accustomed to...boredom and not rely so exclusively on our feelings."

I am all but silenced reading these words. Are they not the same kind of things that took me into a year's journey? One which started with me saying, "I wanted to go to exotic places to jumpstart my creativity. I needed an Annie-Dillard-style trip to the Galapagos. But, quite simply, I was going nowhere." (chapter 1, God in the Yard)

Does not Tradition explain, now after-the-fact, why I also wrote this...

There were days when I would come to the woods and think, what's the point...I'm wasting my time...nothing is happening here...I'm not doing anything.... Who did I think I was sitting out here doing nothing? (Chapter 10, God in the Yard)

Perhaps whether we are talking about prayer and life with God or creativity and a life with others, we are really looking at the same dynamic. We move forward only by going through times of release. We do something by accepting times of nothing.

If we feel bored today, or drawn to do nothing for a while, maybe we are on the right track.

Accidental Contemplation

An odd fascination.

That's what I felt, reading Chapter 4 of A Sunlit Absence.

And, at first, a sort of dance of both recognition and defense—as I began to see similarities between my year outdoors and Laird's description of how Contemplation progresses.

Then I smiled. A smile of release.

After all, in my year of outdoor solitude, I had not promised to stick to any practice except going outside with my cup of tea and (sometimes) a little book of Psalms. I had not promised to focus on a particular prayer, or to "scrutinize [my] thoughts" or stay in a state of "attention." And I certainly had not promised to avoid a nap, should it be so gracious as to show up after I finished my last sip of tea.

So, between Laird's lovely descriptions of "light meeting Light" and "spaciousness" and "inner awareness" that seemed a little abstract, I suddenly began to remember something that felt real and touchable.

I remembered that, simply by showing up outside every day for a whole year, to a relatively quiet place where no one required anything of me, I had begun to want to know the names of things. Of plants and creatures and the people who served me in stores or at ticket counters. I remembered how I had begun to open doors for people, to listen to the sound of their voices (and be more willing to be quiet in order to gain the privilege). And, yes, I remembered how I had "dozed" (an apparent aberration to be avoided in the Contemplative stance). Oh, I had dozed! And it had been a wonder. Because if I stayed outside and let the restful time pass, I always moved back into a state of unforced attention again; the nap had been needful.

Laird says that one of the steps in Contemplation is to come to a place where you feel you can "just be." Maybe one of the most difficult places to do this is in regards to spiritual practice itself, accepting that it's okay if we have chosen the nap and the tea and the little book of Psalms. It is not a contest after all.

What's Your Chair?

For a special project, I'm reading a book called A Sunlit Absence: Silence, Awareness, and Contemplation.

Hmmm.

I love the picture on the front. A gentle woman leaning in the shadows, arm on a book, quiet. I love the idea of silence and solitude (you know I do).

The book encourages us to choose a prayer chair on which to practice our silent moments ("quite googleable and not especially inexpensive"). I am wondering: couldn't a red sled do?

It also occurs to me that all of the examples so far, of successful contemplatives, were monks and nuns (and of course Jesus in the Wilderness). I wonder if these people were naturally introverted and drawn to the idea of silence. I have little doubt that they were childless.

I'm not judging the book yet (by its cover or anything else :), but I simply want to say that I truly wonder where the extrovert fits in a life of faith, where the woman with a few children hanging on her arms can find silence and solitude. I found some outdoors for a year, but it wasn't quite what the book I'm reading seems to have in mind.

Which Comes First: Gratitude or Gift?

In chapter 5 of God in the Yard, I admit that lists didn't change me. I feel alone in saying this, seeing the popularity of the gratitude list. But I'm being honest. And of course it doesn't mean someone else couldn't find change this way.

Today I'm particularly struck by the Lewis Hyde quotes in this chapter:

...with gifts that are agents of change, it is only when the gift has worked in us, only when we have come up to its level, as it were, that we can give it away again...

and

Between the time a gift comes to us and the time we pass it along, we suffer gratitude.

So gratitude seems to be almost an ache, one that moves us to give what we've been given, after the gift has wrought some kind of work in us.

I do not think the receiving or the giving is simple. So much depends on our openness. Our openness depends on healing, or maybe courage. The giving and receiving seem not to be one-time experiences either. For instance, it occurs to me that the subject of beauty has been recurring in my life over time.

A few years ago I discovered someone whose life work with the poor is based on theories of beauty— manifested in pottery, jazz, and growing orchids. How unusual. It gained my attention. About a year later I was asked to speak on beauty at Jubilee Professional. This request perplexed me. What did I know of beauty, to be pinpointed as someone who had anything to say about it?

Since that time, the subject has been coming 'round again. When did it become a gift? Have I come up to its level? Is the process of receiving even near over? Yet I've begun to feel the intense need to consciously give beauty away.

Which is to say that gratitude seems to me to be a complex experience rooted in gifts. And gifts are not something we can necessarily engineer in our favor. They are given through time, in pieces, and in unexpected places.

---

Andrea has blogged on Chapter 2.

Talking Back: Celebration

Lent begins today.

I wasn't going to do anything about that.

Then I read Andrea's first post on God in the Yard. I love that she has resolved to play, even as part of the religious world descends into a form of mourning and purposeful deprivation.

I also read the next chapter I was supposed to read along this journey... chapter 4, Weep: Celebration.

And suddenly I knew I would create my own Lenten celebration. It would be a form of play, though it would also recognize a sense of sorrow. It would include collecting Nelson's elements of celebration recounted in God in the Yard: sound, gestures, natural elements, handmade items, and food.

I am not sure how I will gather my elements over 40 days, what I will make of them. Maybe nothing. Today I took this little stone, so opaque, so dead in its way, and put it in a crystal bowl. Like the "bottle" in which the Psalmist says God collects our tears, the bowl is cupping the stone.

For some, Lent is a giving up. For me, it is going to be a giving over... of sorrows, confusions, doubts, disappointments. To the degree that I can, I will put them in the crystal bowl. A kind of Lenten prayer.

Talking Back: Marking Out Temples

Contemplation means to 'mark out a temple.' Chapter 3 in God in the Yard is an invitation to begin that marking. The word also means 'putting together.'

What shall I mark out? What shall I put together?

There are times in life when I really don't know the next thing. I don't know what pencil to pick up, where to start drawing the hopeful lines that will hem me in to a place where I will find my 'putting together' moments.

I wish it was as simple as relying on the old standbys. Read the bible. Go to church. It is not that simple. Sometimes we are more like the Israelites following wordless cloud and fire to where we're supposed to pitch our tent, where we're to pull out gold rings and acacia poles... and hang the thick, sweet walls of the tabernacle. Sometimes we are Elijah just standing in the sheer silence, waiting.

As nerve-wracking as this is, there is some comfort in it. After all, these days I don't want to think and plan and try to make things perfect. I just want to BE. I just want to wake up and make tea, look out the window at the next new snow, and BE.

Is it okay to mark out a place of just-BEing? I would like that. I would.

Can I just-BE a little I am, in the heart of the Great I AM? I would like to simply rest there. I would.


"But I have calmed and quieted my soul, like a weaned child with its mother..." (Ps.131:2)



Fire and Cloud pastel, by L.L. Barkat.

Talking Back: Of Art Pilgrimages and Rosaries

"If I could decide my own 'program' of spiritual practice, it would look like... [be honest, not compliant here]" she said in God in the Yard. (It was an open-response opportunity in Chapter 2.)

It feels mildly subversive to write, "My program would look like an art pilgrimage, tea-drinking outdoors, ballet, the rosary, and onions (yes, onions)."

For a long time I considered Scripture-reading to be the only real spiritual practice. Prayer was a close second, and I was careful to respond to Scripture in my journal by recording my prayers. Don't get me wrong. I love Scripture. And prayer is obviously a long-term aspect of a life of faith.

But there is something of the glory of God that cannot be found simply in words and in two dimensions. God is a universe wide (and wider). God created all that is around me. Each scent and color, each sound, each movement, potentially tells me something of God. Not as if these things ARE God. But they are God's expressions. If I believe Genesis, I must believe that.

So my spiritual practice looks unconventional: art, dance, slicing onions. But the thread that holds it together is the praise that arises when I touch these dimensions. It is the spiritual practice of the Creator himself in Genesis... that one that responds with whispers, or shouts, "It is good."

God also said, "It is not good," when he saw man alone. That too is spiritual practice... seeing the not-good, and opening our hands to fill the void.

In the end, my practice seems very simple. See, hear, touch the world, and respond.

Talking Back: Playing Towards God

As you know, I'm going through God in the Yard. This week I finished Chapter One.

The author said I could pick an idea that was new to me, and blog about it. I chose the idea of playing towards God.

Too often, I think we work towards God— try to orchestrate every last thing, try to be productive, make a "profit," prove the business of our souls.

Playing feels different. It is a trusting thing which says, "Let's see what comes." It is (perhaps) more prone to rhythms, shifts, songs, images.

For me, the rosary is going to be a new way to play towards God this year. I don't know what I'll find along the beads, but this week I found my pastels again, after many, many months...

The Rosary

The mysteries—the subjects of contemplation that one moves through as one prays each subdivision of beads—are related aspects of Christ's life: five glad events, five sad events, five teaching events, and five glorious events.

— p.xiii, The Rosary by Garry Wills.

Talking Back for 12 Weeks

I am a person who has been known to talk to herself. Even aloud. I don't know why I do this. I find a strange delight in it.

So it seems natural for me to do what I've decided to do. Talk back to myself for 12 weeks, by going through God in the Yard.

Lest you think me terribly vain (though you might be able to make a case for that :), I will tell you why I made this decision.

The group I speak to on a regular basis (except this Spring) has decided to go through God in the Yard together. I usually study along with whatever they study. So here we are. I'm going to be talking back to myself, for the purpose of engaging with others.

Andrea is part of this group too, which is kind of fun.

In looking at the book, I decided on a basic approach I'll almost surely depart from...

• Read a chapter a week, probably on Sundays, and journal during the reading (there are guided opportunities within each chapter)

• Throughout the week, answer one question a day (from the discussion question section at the back of the book). With the exception of the first chapter, which has seven questions, this works out perfectly because there are six questions for each chapter. One a day, excluding Sunday. :)

• Somehow tie in my rosary journey and my art pilgrimage, probably on Sundays. The tie-in might be so loose no one will recognize it. That's okay. The author told me the journey is mine :)

So far I did the introduction and chapter one. I heard today that the study actually begins in March, but I'm thinking I'll keep going now that I started. This will put me a little ahead, but I suppose I might be anyway since I've read the book before. ;-)

In the Intro, I liked the opening poem, and I'm actually taking it to heart this year. Paying attention to small things. Things within reach. Living bit by bit. Like the journey, which happens one little step at a time. (Except when we catch the occasional bus and go miles in minutes. There are always exceptions, aren't there... )

Here is the poem, and I think I may have already found a moon, in my focus on the rosary...

Find a single
tree, find
the moon.
It doesn't
take much.
Just begin.

Put it in a Psalm: Sorrows and Tangerine Petals

A while back, Glynn tried the 'Put it in a Psalm' lament exercise from God in the Yard. His words stayed with me.

This morning I thought, why not? Why not give it a try too? So I sat outside, listened to the morning and the burdens of my heart, and put them in a Psalm...

Sorrows and Tangerine Petals

I tire of trying, of holding on
Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good

I chaff at the myriad tasks before me
Give thanks to the Lord for He is good

I stir our sorrows, stare into the pot,
Give thanks to the Lord for He is good

I think that the world is too much with us,
Give thanks to the Lord for He is good

Sun barely touches the black-eyed Susans,
Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good

Dew kisses the edges of tangerine tropicals,
Give thanks to the Lord for He is good.

From rose-painted teacup, creme fragrance rises,
Give thanks to the Lord for He is good.

Give thanks, give thanks,
for the touches barely, the kisses
moist, the tangerine petals, and eyes of brown,
for teacups painted and Earl-Grey filled,
for Spirit in all this glory found.

God in the Yard: In the Beginning • Week 1

Tomorrow I meet with my writing friend to begin our collaboration. But today I thought I should begin somewhere. Here are a few thoughts on structuring Week 1 in the God in the Yard Devotional Companion book. I welcome your suggestions, insights, conversation. Someday I will put all this together into a coherent whole. But for now it seemed good to begin...

From God in the Yard, Week 1

When I was a child, I lived in the woods.

Not literally, of course. I wasn’t a pint-sized Paul Bunyan, wielding my axe, toddling around with a stuffed blue ox. The woods were a place I sought solace from a difficult life. There, I watched the creek change from silver-green ribbon, to amber, from ice-blue to spring’s rush and tumble of white. I floated sticks and made pine needle beds. Sometimes I raced my sister across the creek rocks, then knocked her into the reeds. In the woods I was free...


A Few Thoughts on Beginnings

"Tell me about when I was born." My youngest child loves to say this when I turn off the light and tuck her in bed. Maybe the story of her beginnings gives her solace for the darkness she will now face alone. Maybe it informs and comforts her dreams. Maybe it is simply about connection or the pleasure of remembrance. Stories of beginnings are rich and powerful.

In Made to Stick, Chip and Dan Heath note that remembering how we began, or how we came to a place, especially a place of difficulty, is often more valuable than thinking towards a vision of some hoped-for future. Unraveling the past, or following the trail from past to present, if you will, does more to propel us forward than trying to magically jump into an abstract tomorrow.

It was interesting to me to see that both Glynn and Laura chose to focus on the "When I was a child" option, in embarking on their first week with God in the Yard. Maybe they did other activities too, but this was the one they both chose to share. Stories of beginnings. Could it be that we instinctively know we move forward by first going back?


Beginnings in Scripture (all taken from the KJV)

Morning Reading • Genesis 1:1-31

Excerpt... "In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters. And God said, 'Let there be light: and there was light. And God saw the light, that it was good: and God divided the light from the darkness.'"


Afternoon Reading • Psalm 139:11-16

Excerpt... "My substance was not hid from thee when I was made in secret, and curiously wrought in the lowest parts of the earth. Thine eyes did see my substance, yet being unperfect; and in thy book all my members were written, which in continuance were fashioned, when as yet there was none of them."


Evening Reading • Luke 2:22-38

Excerpt... "And there was one Anna, a prophetess, the daughter of Phanuel, of the tribe of Aser: she was of a great age, and had lived with an husband seven years from her virginity; And she was a widow of about fourscore and four years, which departed not from the temple, but served God with fastings and prayers night and day. And she coming in that instant gave thanks likewise unto the Lord, and spake of him to all them that looked for redemption in Jerusalem."


Ways to Consider

In each of the passages above, it might be helpful to ponder...

1. Who are the characters present in the passage? (Don't shy from listing the animals as well :)

2. What is the setting like? What can we see, smell, hear?

3. What is happening in the passage?

4. Do you know more about any of these stories? About what happened before or after these particular moments? How do they relate (or not seem to relate) to the "beginnings" in these passages?

5. Can you relate one of your own "beginnings" stories to any of these passages?


Prayer

In the beginning, you created, Lord. In this new moment of beginnings, create in me.


Art for Reflection

Anunciation, by L.L. Barkat (pictured above). Do you have other recommendations? Contributions? Let me know.


Musical selection

To be selected (this is not my forte :)


-----
Notes to Myself (and anyone else who wants to listen :)...

Need to consider:

1. how well this captures the essence of Chapter 1
2. how to make the connection to spiritual practice (or not)
3. whether the questions are deep and wide enough, have the right focus
4. whether certain "natural" aspects can be played up (since GIY's setting is one of outdoor solitude), or whether they even need to be

Companion Together

God in the Yard is off to print, and I'm thinking about a companion e-book (maybe something for a dollar, or free downloadable)— a resource that people could use as an individual devotional or group-study help.

This might seem unnecessary, because God in the Yard already involves activity, journaling and small-group discussion possibilities.

But I can see how some people are going to want more opportunities for Scripture juxtapositions. Right now I'm wondering if it would make sense to provide an Old Testament reference, grouped with a Psalm reference and something from the life of Christ. Pairing art and maybe music suggestions might also be cool.

Well, as you can see, I'm totally thinking out loud here. I'm also thinking that though I've asked a wonderful writer and bible study teacher to help me develop this, I'd also like to extend the companion opportunity to you. It wouldn't necessarily require that you read God in the Yard. You could chime in here with thoughts, questions, recommendations. And if I can eventually create something that also includes links, I'd like to link to you if I use your contribution.

Anyway. Would you think with me? Walk with me? Companion together?

Architecture

From the unedited chapter "Weep: celebration", in God in the Yard...

Our house gapes at me from the far side of the lawn, its aluminum storm windows reflecting an air of doubt and boredom. Must I explain myself to a 1930’s Tudor? Okay, this is my story. I am in a makeshift temple in my back yard. These are the boundary lines: a rusty chain link fence on three sides that separates my property from the neighbors’ and a patch of English ivy that fills the little woods from side to side and top to bottom; I always sit in the ivy under the white pine, never in the grass.

Settle

This is what silence sounds like in my back yard…

Wind whooshing, woodpecker playing snare drum in the old maple, a yellow toy truck klunk-bashing tall cedar and jungle gym. Cordless drill making holes in someone’s garage. Shouts, knocks, squeals, sirens, a harmonica. Hemlocks whisper-whispering, "shh, shh, shh," the girl can hear us. Nuts cracking, water drip dripping. Leaf blowers, lawn mowers, an ice cream truck blaring electric-sick rendition of "You are My Sunshine." A plane roaring towards Chicago, or maybe Africa. An aluminum door banging, playing hard-to-get with the breeze ("you can have me, no you can’t"). The dog next door, first in a game of dog dominoes, "woof-woof-woof" down the street and back again and again and again.

I take what I can get.

Sabbath Greetings After Texas

I take my last bite of vanilla yogurt, sprinkled with ground, golden flax seed. The final contrast of smooth and gritty goes down. In the same moment I turn to the trinity of tiny windows that let too little light into my dining room (Tudors can be like that... designed to mute the sunny possibilities I've always loved).

Glancing through the winter-wearied glass, I see the little woods is lit up green. It was not so just four days ago, when I flew off to Texas for an artist's retreat. Did I consider how this place would blossom in my absence? Did I know?

I think of something one of the speakers said at the retreat. Something that disturbed me. I know he was telling the reticent artist to get up and get going, embrace ambition and stop waiting around for something to happen, as if things will just do that. It's a message for a certain kind of season. But I wondered if ambition could always be the answer. This is, if you will, my continuing thoughts on Sabbath come to life.

Which is grit? Ambition or waiting? Which is smooth? I swallow the two together, not knowing the answer. I swallow and marvel at the green parade outside my windows, yellow trumpets of forsythia already making way for lines of pink bleeding hearts. Sabbath thoughts. Smooth and gritty, marching on, going down.

Sabbath, Gifts and Virility

Piecing together thoughts for my next chapter, on Sabbath. As always, so many thoughts. Too many thoughts. And my direction amorphous.

It helps to think out loud.

Today, trying to synthesize ideas from Lewis Hyde's The Gift: Creativity and the Artist in the Modern World. Creativity. That's one aspect of human activity that, according to Jewish thinkers, Sabbath puts aside. Not in the pleasure sense (playing my cello), but in the sense of trying to create something new that might solve a problem, meet a need (I know, is not pleasure a need?)

This word that I'd been thinking of in relation to Sabbath comes up in Hyde too: virility. I've been thinking Sabbath asks us to put aside virility (virility is related to creation too, and the possibility of healing). On the Sabbath, we agree to stop being virile. We agree to a cycle that includes not only advance but retreat. I think suddenly that it is fitting Jesus chose to heal on the Sabbath... He being virile for us while we rest in the gift of it.

Gifts, Hyde seems to suggest, also move in cycles. The giver at some point becomes the receiver. If the cycle is broken, the power of the gift diminishes. In a sense, we die. (And now too I think of the terrible Old Testament punishment for breaking Sabbath: death.)

So many thoughts. I think out loud, place them before You (and my friends here). Wait for a shakedown.

Unlikely Thoughts on Prayer

Still at it. Still trying to wrap my mind around the concept of prayer (yes, confession: still trying to write my next chapter). Not that I haven't prayed for a lifetime already. Not that I don't know the basics. Not...

Well, that's just it. I'm stuck this morning, in a trembling state... on what it is I can not say about prayer. And by that, I don't mean that I have nothing to say. I mean that what I have to say might cause someone to choke on her morning coffee.

Here's the thing. It's. I'm. Okay, out with it... I'm thinking about prayer as sex (not sex as prayer, which could also be argued I suppose). I'm thinking about how so much of our prayer and instruction on prayer is like (don't choke, okay, I'm warning you up front) porn. I don't mention that word to be graphic or sensational and definitely not to be condemning for those who've developed a habit in that direction (there's enough of all three in the world to go 'round, it's just not my way, and it's not my point).

In other words, prayer is too often Insert Tab A into Slot B for Response C. It probably works on some level. It's definitely a reach for connection. And it's a little like painting by number. We put the hot-red paint on the number 1's and the passion-blue paint on the number 5's, and so on. And in the end we've got our velvet Elvis. There he is, charmer on black. Flat and fuzz-muted. No one can argue that we haven't captured him at least in some small way. It's a matter of spectrum.

And now I'm gulping about the task ahead of me this morning. I'm going to take the plunge and try to write this chapter using this angle. It's going to mean an unorthodox dip into Song of Songs. I'm not too pleased about it, to be honest with you. Except that I think it's the way to go. This is the call of the writer: to follow the trail set before him/her. God, give me courage and sensitivity and the will to go all the way.

How to Pray

Reading, musing, struggling about prayer. Need to understand, articulate something (writing a book on spiritual practice demands it.)

Prayer. From the same Latin word that we get our English word precarious. Risky. Dangerous. Hazardous. Uncertain. How to write about such an unpredictable, uncontrollable, uneasy alliance/reaching/groaning/hoping towards You?

Sybil MacBeth suggests Praying in Color. Doodling before You. I like that. Drawing, doodling, too are risky, unpredictable. Where will the pen take me, what will it outline. Will I stand back and find Your face in my scratchings, or simply sense Your yes over my shoulder as You watch me move? Will you write me a love note on the corner of the page?

How to pray. Put Your color to my soul, energize my wrist and fingers, scribble through me...