Graymoor 3: Centerpiece

It's the end of our retreat day at Graymoor. We are still going to reflect on one more scripture. A different translation of Psalm 23. But time is short. So we can't meander anywhere on the grounds. We're to move about in the same room, each trying to find our own space. When we're done, we'll come back to the circle of chairs. It has a coffee table in the middle, with a makeshift centerpiece. While others walk, I stay and consider the centerpiece...

Two-by-four cross, patched together with a bandage of rainbow potholder weaving loops. A bed sheet wrapped at the base. And candles flickering through dusty amber gold glass— a circle of light and fragrance. Incongruence and congruence all on one table draped with a white, floral-textured tablecloth. Church, even here in this grey room— its grey walls, grey ceiling, grey carpet and lamps, grey doors.

Two-by-four cross patched together with a bandage of rainbow potholder weaving loops. No stage, no slick performance. Just a circle of candles, a circle of your people joined around this cross. Where the Shepherd became the Lamb.

Graymoor 1: Against the Cedar

I come today, tight in my chest, tense in my hands. Restless. Unhappy to be here; this was not my choice. The session opens. I look at the floor, close my eyes. Half listen.

They send us off for a half an hour, to meditate on Psalm 23.

I go outside. Trudge down the road behind the building. Find a hill, snow-laden, brambled. Climb it. My bag is heavy, changing my center of gravity. I am weighed down. Unbalanced. I keep stepping on my scarf, which makes me stumble. The hill is slippery. I grab branches. Stomp my feet into the snow to get a hold. This is no way to climb a hill. I find my way down the other side, walk behind a water tower, under pipes, over wires, going nowhere...so it seems.

Around a curve I find a plateau that overlooks the valley. I stand, take it in. This is where I will meditate. I move to the edge of the clearing, where a thicket begins, sit down on my day's agenda folder, lean against a cedar. Look, listen, breathe. Write, this...

Cold air. See my breath. There's an old, red plastic flower half buried in the dirt— the fake amidst the real. "Knock, knock, knock," a wood pecker searching. And little birds, black velvet, brown velvet. Snow and the droppings of animals now gone. Birds passing through. Flitting high. The ground hard, snow crunchy. A bald spot of earth, littered with pebbles. The breeze. And a "chip, chip" from a black-capped chickadee. The chickadee is pecking at branches on a leafless bush. A sudden splash of red to my left— a gift, a brilliant cardinal in the muted browns. The Lord is shepherd of all this and of my soul with its requisite seasons, its wastes, its wants, its flights, its highs, its cold places and the bright red warmth of hope. The Lord, the Lord of All is my shepherd. His rod and his staff, they comfort me.