Sanctuary of Women: Blog

John O’Donohue writes, “When you are in a certain place, great love or kindness happens; it imprints itself on the ether of the place. When we pass there, hungry and needy in spirit, that loving imprint shines on us like an icon. In folk culture one always knew where to go when sorrow darkened the heart. These places can also act like a poultice to take the poison out of the heart’s wounds. Rilke recommended that when life became turbulent and troublesome, it was wise to stay close to one simple thing in nature.” (From “To Retrieve the Lost Art of Blessing” in To Bless the Space Between Us.)

Perhaps more than any other element, water holds the presence of blessing for me. The lake where I spent childhood summers, the river that ran by the hospital where I worked as a chaplain intern, the ocean I visit each year with a group of my girlfriends from seminary, the baptismal bowl I have dipped my hands into again and again: water has traced a course through my days and my memory, leaving a path of blessing in its wake and providing sustenance that helps me offer a blessing in turn.

This week closes with a water-born blessing from Sacred Journeys.

By Water Be Blessed

May you dwell with the spirits of many waters:

May you befriend Creativity of the birthing waters.
May Endurance accompany you in the raging rivers.
May Pleasure embrace you beside moon-drawn oceans.
May Sustenance lead you to her hidden springs.
May Compassion bathe you in her healing waters.
May you dance with Delight in the falling rain.

May the spirits of many waters dwell in you.

Questions for reflection

Is there an element of creation that you most associate with blessing—one that holds particular power in your life and memory? When, as Rilke says, life becomes turbulent and troublesome, what blessings do you find in this element? How does staying close to this element—fire, earth, wind, water—provide the inspiration and energy that help you to be a person of blessing? As we go from this week, what blessings do you long to offer? What blessing might you need to ask for in order to do this?

Closing Blessing

By fire, by earth,
by wind, by water
be blessed.

By all the things
that have and do connect us
may we both be blessed.

By the God of journeys, of healing,
of mystery, of hope
may we continually be birthed.

Adapted from Sacred Journeys © Jan L. Richardson

Where do blessings come from? From what do we fashion them? What elements go into a blessing, and how does a blessing reveal what is elemental—essential, basic—in our lives? As we near the end of this week of exploring elemental blessings, today’s reflection from Sacred Journeys continues the letter to a friend for whom I wrote the blessings that appear in this chapter.

These blessings for you come out of that pain, and they come out of those connections. They come out of a memory of how earth-embracing you are and how much I enjoyed the times you shared that quality with me: gazing at the stars through the barren branches of a tree that no longer stands, walking in  the autumn wind that danced around us in the field of a Florida farm, partaking in the gifts of the earth in bread and wine (and a Thanksgiving meal, and a seafood feast, and a festive party with which you gifted me), witnessing your spirit as it moved to the very heartbeat of God.

I am reminded of the song you composed, “Out of Blessing We Give.” Out of blessing we give, indeed, and out of pain and loss and sorrow and unnameable hope. Out of moments offered, dreams broken, trust scattered, and journeys intertwined. Out of trepidation we give, out of struggle, out of wonder, out of our very connectedness. Out of fire, earth, wind, water…the elemental, original blessings that form body and soul and which we share with all things. And which I now share with you.

Questions for reflection

Right now, in this moment, what in your life is most in need of a blessing? What situation, wound, desire, relationship, memory, hope—what needs a word or gesture of blessing that you could offer? What would be the first line of a blessing for that need? What might the blessing help you see or know; what next step could it help you take?

Adapted from Sacred Journeys © Jan L. Richardson

In her introduction to The Book of Blessings, Marcia Falk writes, “If you are looking for the heart and soul and bones of Hebrew prayer, you will find them all in the blessing. A blessing—in Hebrew, b’rakhah—is a special kind of utterance that can turn a moment into an event. Blessings intensify life by increasing our awareness of the present even while awakening our connections to the past. In a richly faceted world, full of surprise and infinite variation, the source of blessings is everywhere to be found. No wonder the rabbis of the Talmud (b. Berakhot 35a) proclaimed it forbidden to enjoy anything of this world without first saying a blessing.”

This blessing from Sacred Journeys, composed for a friend, continues this week’s exploration of how we find blessings in what is elemental and basic to our lives—and how we might offer blessings in turn. To pick up the thread of this week’s reflections, visit Monday’s post.

By Wind Be Blessed

May you dance in the rushing wind.

May she blow open your door
and wildly lead you across dawn-lit hills.
May she sing through the trees
and beckon you to accompany her rhythms.
May she capture your breath,
draw out the Spirit in you,
and run with it,
laughing,
under a star-drenched sky.

May the rushing wind dance in you.

Questions for reflection

What makes up the heart and soul and bones of your own prayers? In the rhythm of your days, how might—or how does—the presence of a prayer or blessing turn a moment, as Marcia Falk writes, into an event? Is there an occasion, ordinary or otherwise, that might benefit from a blessing, whether carefully composed or spontaneously offered?

Adapted from Sacred Journeys © Jan L. Richardson

To offer a blessing is an intimate act that acknowledges that we are connected with another and that we desire the wholeness of that person—or that place, or whatever it is that we are blessing. A blessing is a reminder that God has not designed us to live by our own devices; we are bound together with one another and with all of creation, and we are called to work for the flourishing of those whom we share this life with—and those who will follow. Offering a blessing is an act of profound hope. In blessing one another, we recognize and ally ourselves with the presence of God who is ever working to bring about the healing of the world.

When harm has come to a relationship, when a connection has been broken, offering a blessing can become difficult or impossible. Yet as we begin to pick up the pieces and to mend, claiming and creating a blessing—even for one’s own healing self—can provide a way to put some of the pieces together in a new way.

Today’s reflection from Sacred Journeys comes from a letter to a friend, written during a time when I was thinking about brokenness and blessing.

I think being able to bless means that even in situations that aren’t okay, one hasn’t given up, hasn’t lost power, hasn’t cut off the parts of one’s own spirit and self that were once intertwined with another. Remember those candlesticks I bought to match the chalice and paten I gave you? I got those because they symbolized a profound connection that I wanted a visible reminder of. A few other things sometimes elicited conflicting feelings when I remembered how they connected us—ocean waters, stars, particular songs. I didn’t go around agonizing over these things constantly, but I did remember…and there were times when I wished I could turn some of the pain of those connections onto you.

Questions for reflection

When has a trusted connection brought a wound rather than a blessing? In the fullness of time—for a blessing cannot be forced—how might the act of blessing begin to provide a way out of the wound?

Adapted from Sacred Journeys © Jan L. Richardson

In his brilliant essay “To Retrieve the Lost Art of Blessing,” John O’Donohue writes, “Who has the power to bless? This question is not to be answered simply by the description of one’s institutional status or membership. But perhaps there are deeper questions hidden here: What do you bless with? Or where do you bless from? When you bless another, you first gather yourself; you reach down below your surface mind and personality, down to the deeper source within you—namely, the soul. Blessing is from soul to soul.” (From his book To Bless the Space Between Us.)

As we continue to explore this week’s theme, today’s reading is a blessing from Sacred Journeys—from my soul to yours.

By Earth Be Blessed

May you know the embrace of Earth.

May she teach you the wisdom of time:
the unfolding of Spring
the ripening of Summer
the turning of Autumn
the shedding of Winter.

May she teach you the wisdom of intimacy:
seed embraced by warm, dark soil
crevice traced by insistent stream
raindrop clinging to new, soft leaf
precious stones in hidden places.

May she teach you the wisdom of grace:
flowers entwining fallen oak
healing gifts of common weeds
grain for bread, fruit for wine
dancing stars through barren branches.

May you be known in Earth’s embrace.

Questions for reflection

Where do you experience the blessing of the earth? How do you bless the earth in turn? How would you respond to the questions about the art of blessing that John O’Donohue asks above: What do you bless with? Or where do you bless from?

Adapted from Sacred Journeys © Jan L. Richardson

This week finds us exploring the act and the art of blessing, and how we find blessings in the elements that make up our lives and our world. In their book Earth Prayers, Elizabeth Roberts and Elias Amidon write of how offering a blessing “is neither a simple benevolent wish nor an act of hubris. Rather it is an act of creative confidence.” These acts of creative confidence have ancient roots; throughout the scriptures and the Jewish and Christian traditions we see blessings given as sacramental gestures that acknowledge our connections with each other and our desire for another’s well-being.

Celtic literature offers a lively tradition of blessing. Today’s reflection from Sacred Journeys, taken from a letter to a friend, grew out of reading New Moon of the Seasons, a selection of prayers from Alexander Carmichael’s Carmina Gadelica. This brief collection, found in a bookshop years ago, was my first introduction to the multi-volume compendium of prayers that Carmichael gathered in the highlands and islands of Scotland in the nineteenth century.

Blessings have become tremendously important to me. My quiet time has been deeply enriched by a collection of Gaelic hymns, incantations, prayers, and blessings. The Gaelic sense of the divine as permeating life, work, nature, relationships, everything is amazing. Last night I read a series of blessings for milking cows. Their (the Gaelic people’s, not the cows’!) ability and desire to call forth the holy in all situations has fascinated me.

I think that as I see more and more pain in the world, the ability to bless becomes an increasingly radical act—particularly on the part of those who have received the pain. One of the Gaelic blessings, a “Blessing of the Kindling,” says in part, “God, kindle Thou in my heart within/A flame of love to my neighbour,/To my foe, to my friend, to my kindred all.” Even “to my foe”!

Questions for reflection

What and whom do you bless? When do you find it difficult to receive blessings—or to give them?

From Sacred Journeys © Jan L. Richardson

Litany of the Blessed © Jan Richardson

As we cross into the fourth week of Lent—and approach the halfway point of the season—the readings for this week come from a chapter of Sacred Journeys titled “Stirring the Ashes: Elemental Blessings.”

Invocation

God of fire, earth, wind, and water,
embrace the elemental wounds we bear.
God of grace and healing,
help me return your embrace,
that I may bring forth new blessings
from the broken places.

Text

Deuteronomy 30:19-20

Context

In Lent, we are laid bare. As we remember our pain, as we touch our wounds, as we journey toward the terror of the cross, we may find ourselves feeling vulnerable, sore, exposed. We may struggle against the way Lent strips us of pretense and beckons us to see what is basic to us. Yet the ashes of the first day of Lent affirm that we are elemental people. We who are fashioned of earth are also touched by fire, brought to life by the breath of God, and blessed by the birthing waters. Here, in the middle of the Lenten journey, we pause to reflect on the elements of which we are made, to consider not only the wounds that they sometimes harbor but also the possibilities they hold for blessing.

Several years ago I found myself on a Lenten journey that left me raw and intimate with brokenness. A friendship that had provided trust, safety, and delight gave way to alienation, insecurity, and anger. At the time I also was working as a facilitator of a group of emotionally and physically abused women. One night, in the midst of all this, I realized I couldn’t take Communion. How could I share in the breaking of the body and the blessing of the cup after listening to the stories of women whose bodies had been broken and whose blood had been shed? And how could I share Communion with the friend who had led me to such brokenness, who had turned the cup of blessing bitter?

Friends who companioned me in the journey provided moments of communion when I couldn’t share in the ritual of Communion. They shared blessings when I couldn’t share the loaf and cup. Slowly, painfully, I came to understand Communion anew. Gathered around the table, we who are broken re-member the body of Christ. By our care for the broken of this world, we give birth to the Christ who wills blessing, not brokenness, for all.

That Lenten journey gave rise, much later, to the blessings contained in this week’s readings. Written for the friend who had become a stranger, they became a cry of life and hope in the wake of pain and loss. Broken at an elemental level, I fashioned these blessings, and they bear witness to a keen memory that longed to re-member differently the elemental connections between us and within myself.

Excerpts from a letter that accompanied these blessings weave them together. In the letter, I tried to give voice to the source of the blessings and to my understanding of blessing as an act of power in a seemingly powerless situation.

May this week’s dance of blessing and reflection lead you to your elemental places, the spaces within you that bear deep wounds as well as seeds of new birth. May God meet you in these depths, holding you as you remember.

Monday

By Fire Be Blessed

May you dwell by the Sacred Fire.
May the flames of the Holy dance in your eyes:

flame of wisdom
flame of insight
flame of longing
flame of devotion
flame of new vision
flame of long memory
flame of warmth-of-spirit
flame of strength-of-body.

May the Sacred Fire dwell in you.
May you dance as flame in the eyes of the Holy.

Questions for reflection

What do you consider elemental in your life? How does this season invite you to look at what is most crucial and fundamental for you— the stuff of which you are made and from which you fashion your life? What blessings do you find in the elemental spaces of your self?

From Sacred Journeys © Jan L. Richardson

For an introduction to the Lenten journey we’re making here at Sanctuary of Women, visit A Season of Spiraling. Today’s artwork originally appeared here at The Painted Prayerbook.

As with any emotion, anger can be a map. Within the landscape of our life, the presence of anger reveals where our passions lie, whom we love, what we consider important.  Anger shows us where we are vulnerable, where there are cracks or wounds in our soul, where there is brokenness within us or around us. If we pay attention to what anger reveals about the terrain of our soul, it can help us find and create the path ahead.

Anger is also a messenger. It always has something to tell us about who we are and how we are connected with those around us. This is part of why anger can be so difficult and complicated: it reminds us what matters to us. We rarely become angry about something or someone we do not care about. In her groundbreaking essay “The Power of Anger in the Work of Love,” Beverly Wildung Harrison writes, “Anger is not the opposite of love. It is better understood as a feeling-signal that all is not well in our relation to other persons or groups or to the world around us. Anger is a mode of connectedness to others and it is always a vivid form of caring.” She goes on to write, “Where anger rises, there the energy to act is present.”

When anger walks into my life and sits down at my table, I try to remember (eventually) to ask, “What is anger trying to tell me? What’s the invitation here? What choice can I make that will lead me beyond feeling powerless? Is there a step I can take that will transform anger into action—for my own life, for the lives of those around me, for the life of the world?”

We close this week with a meditation from Sacred Journeys in which anger appears as a messenger and companion.

Anger Is a Woman

Anger is a woman
who has learned
that pleasantness
is not the way to peacefulness,
that silence
is not the way to strength.

Anger is a woman
who has learned
to breathe from her belly;
who waits at your door,
bringing you offerings;
who knows your true name
and gives it back to you.

She has lived on the streets.
She knows prisons
and alleys
and mud.

She has seen hungry children
and broken women
and desperate men
and spoken to them
in their own tongues.

They gave her a song.
She sings it to you.

Questions for reflection

How do you experience anger as a map or a messenger? What does your anger show you about the shape of your life and what you hold important and beloved? What invitations does anger offer to you? How might anger sing through you?

Blessing

Blessed are you
who journey for a time
with Anger,
for you will know
the resurrection
that lies beyond.

Adapted from Sacred Journeys © Jan L. Richardson.

So what happens when the one we are angry with is God? Mary and Martha had, at least, God in the flesh and in front of them; they could look Christ in the face and say what they needed to say to him. How about for us? We are nervous sometimes about letting ourselves be angry at God, particularly when we cannot see how God reacts to our anger—cannot see with our own eyes that God is big enough to handle our anger; cannot see, as did Martha and Mary, that God feels so deeply for us that God weeps with us and, in fact, is loathe to strike us dead for acknowledging what is within us.

One of the reasons I love the psalmists is that they did not hesitate to speak their anger to God. We do not have to journey very far into the Psalms to see how willing the writers were to give God a piece of their minds—and hearts. If anger—and the other wide range of emotions that make us human—found its way into the prayers of the psalmists, then how might it find its way into our own prayers?

Today’s reflection and prayer come from my book In Wisdom’s Path: Discovering the Sacred in Every Season. They arose from a time, more than a decade ago, that anger came into my life as a visitor and teacher.

Each book I write teaches me many things. The lessons of this one came like pulling teeth. The way these pages fall one after the other obscures the days and weeks and sometimes months that lay between them as I wrestled with the words or avoided the blank page entirely. It wasn’t that I felt blocked, exactly; I could write, I just didn’t always want to put on paper what was stewing in my soul. I was angry with God, mad at the church, grieving for a damaged relationship, and needing time for my spirit to catch up with all the changes that had taken place in my life. I felt about God the way I sometimes do when the intensity of a friendship necessitates a breathing space. I know you’re there, I told God. I just don’t want to talk with you for a while.

When we wrestle like lovers
and I let you go
to tend to my wounds
that our loving has opened;

when we argue like sisters
and I storm away
to stew in the juices
my anger has stirred;

when the force of my passion
has left me exhausted
and I turn to the silence
to gather my strength;

let me hear you still breathing
there in the shadows,
blessing my silence
and weeping my name.

Questions for reflection

So do you get angry with God? What about? What do you do with your divine anger? Do you allow your anger to be part of your prayers—to be a prayer in itself? How might your anger become a doorway, a pathway that takes you deeper into God? How might Martha and Mary be teachers and companions for you in discerning how your anger can be a path toward life?

To a friend who angered me

I think your most valuable gift to me has been a space—a safe space—to share my voice. Through your willingness to hear, you have helped me to speak. I suspect that some days that may have felt like a mixed blessing to you—days when my voice spoke more pain and sadness and anger than I had ever been able to say and that erupted in ways that felt awfully sloppy and messy to me. There were times lately when I needed to say something just to say it without worrying whether you would hear it as pressure or as a desire for you to change. You heard me far more often than not, however. I remember being struck one time by how well you seemed to understand what I was saying. Then it hit me that your ability to hear so well seemed to coincide with the time that I started sharing more honestly and deeply. Funny how that works. . . .

—From a letter to a friend

Questions for reflection

When has someone’s honest and caring listening enabled you to express and transform your anger? What do you do when you are angry with someone whom is it not safe to share that anger with?

From Sacred Journeys © Jan L. Richardson. To pick up the thread of this week’s reflections, visit Monday’s post.