practicing pilgrimage at home and abroad
On Saturday I’m leaving for Europe to co-lead a pilgrimage for young adults in Ireland, followed by a few days in London to revisit my old stomping grounds and spend time with good friends.
Since I’m spending the day packing, I thought I’d share some of my favorite travel tools of late:
Not because I have to post each week in this space—at times that’s both unrealistic and unnecessary. Instead, I want to share with you about my time away because it was an act of self-care—an unfolding spiritual practice in this very full season—and I want to invite you to do the same in times when the events of life carry you away from your center.
You might remember that my husband, Kyle, and I bought our first house toward the end of last summer. Since then we’ve been working on turning our basement into an income property, and though we’re closing in on the finish line, everything seems to be happening all at once, demanding our evenings, our weekends, and often interrupting our workdays. Add into the mix the fact that we’re both preparing to leave the country on our own respective pilgrimages (I’m co-leading a journey to Ireland and Kyle is finally walking the Camino), and our current circumstances quickly become overwhelming.
As a highly sensitive person, I’ve been aware of this for a while now, watching my anxiety build and my capacity decrease as the weeks progressed. The things which often act as an anchor were being uprooted—my home became noisy and chaotic, my backyard a construction zone, my time seemingly robbed and my finances draining (people warned us that renovations always take longer and cost more, and they were right).
Even my workplace was disrupted as they cut into the wall behind my desk to make repairs to the pipes in the neighboring bathroom—a metaphor for the greater ways in which my work and capacity to create were suffering, no doubt.
I felt as if I were drowning—grasping to simply stay afloat. Then, one day while driving, the Mary Oliver poem, “When I Am among the Trees,” appeared in my mind as if a message from my soul—
And, they do. At that moment something within me shifted, and the burden of what seemed to be drowning me was lifted as I began to focus on the glimmers of the Sacred that were saving my life, acting as the source of Life and the face of the Divine in this overwhelming season.
Apart from the trees and my daily walks in the forest, here’s what’s saving me right now:
These things are saving my life right now, and daily. They might seem simple in nature, but in this season they mean the world. And, in the end, isn’t it often the simplest shifts that can make the greatest difference? A shift in perception is always a miracle, no matter how small.
I took time away last week to take one thing off of my to-do list, to tend to what matters most, and to regain my footing. I painted walls, took walks, and stayed in my pajamas a little longer. And although I’m back at work—the construction continuing below and my departure drawing ever near—things feel different. Instead of feeling overwhelmed by all that surrounds me, I’m savoring the ability to press pause and am holding close to the simple things that are saving my life—things that call me to return and remember—little miracles, indeed.
What’s saving your life right now, offering you glimpses of the Sacred when you need it most?
So often Lent is associated with death and with fasting, but that’s not the whole story. It’s about the stripping of the false self in order to call forth the true self—the imago dei. It’s about surrendering the things that don’t give life in order to allow the things that do to flourish. It’s about clearing away the brush of winter and making space in our lives so we can tend to the new growth that comes with spring.
Lent is about omission and waiting, yes, but it’s also about taking action—about drawing close to God so that we may be refined, refreshed, and made new, just as Jesus was in the desert.
What will I be doing this Lent?
I’ll be giving up my typical morning reading during the season of Lent to make space for reading Scripture again. I’ve been taking a break for a while and am curious eager to revisit the stories of Jesus with fresh eyes as I learn from his life what it truly means to strip off the false self and allow the true self to bloom. Because of its ties to Celtic spirituality, I’ve chosen the gospel of John, and I’ll be practicing lectio divina with each passage in hopes of gleaning Sacred wisdom both old and new.
Interested in joining me? I’ve created a free guide to help make this practice your own during the season of Lent (PDF). Click the image below to download the guide and feel free to pass it on!
In this season of Lent, how will you usher in a springtime of the soul by setting aside the things that inhibit growth and making space for the budding of Sacred blooms?
(I buy Harry Potter stamps otherwise.)
I’ve always been a fan of Valentine’s Day. My family has celebrated the holiday with small gifts and Valentines since I was young. Plus, here in the northern hemisphere it’s always a bright spot to look forward to in the midst of a winter slump.
However, I come across disdain for the holiday year after year—it seems that there are just as many people against Valentine’s Day as there are for it. More often than not, this frustration with the holiday has to do with romantic love and broken hearts. What if we started to think of the holiday it differently?
As my interest in the liturgical seasons in the Christian calendar has grown, I’ve also started to notice the liturgical seasons and feast days we participate in as a culture—summer vacation, the Fourth of July (in the US), the onset of autumn (and everything pumpkin spice), Halloween, the Super Bowl (apparently), and of course Valentine’s Day (the list could go on). Sure, they’re often cloaked with consumerism, but just as with the liturgical seasons of the Church, these cultural holidays offer annual invitations for our everyday lives if we choose to listen.
What if this year you made this Valentine’s Day a celebration of love—not simply romantic love that might come and go with each year’s passing, but rather the Love that brings healing and draws us closer to our True Selves and the Divine?
A great invitation, right? However, as with liturgy, it’s always nice to have a written guide. The prayer below has been pinned above my desk for many years. May it help you celebrate and surrender to the Love that never fails to bring Life—this Valentine’s Day and every day.
(Poem from a card distributed by Unity Temple on the Plaza in Kansas City, MO)
How can you celebrate love this Valentine’s Day (and every day)?
Tonight is the second session of the “Pilgrim Principles” class I’m teaching at St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church here in Seattle and we’ll be spending time exploring the second pilgrim principle: “A pilgrim practices somatic spirituality.”
The word somatic means “of or relating to the body.” Somatic spirituality, then, is a spirituality that doesn’t ignore the body (as we so often do when it comes to matters of faith), but rather embraces the body as both a valued participant and conduit in our spiritual search.
A spirituality that incorporates the body is essential for the pilgrim, because a pilgrimage is not only a journey that takes the pilgrim to a foreign land, but also a journey that engages the senses—taste, touch, sight, smell, sound—each serving as windows that can lead to Sacred Encounter and transformation.
I know this to be true now more than ever because of my daily walks in the nearby forest. I began taking these walks simply to get exercise, but it didn’t take long for my daily walk to become one of my most treasured spiritual practices.
I don’t listen to any music or podcasts on these walks, nor do I bring any reading for inspiration. Thoughts will fill my mind, as they inevitably do. But I’ve learned to allow them to come and go, instead surrendering to the steady movement of my steps and the stimulation of my senses—the sound of the trickling stream, the sight of the bright green moss beside the overcast sky, the feeling of the cool breeze against my cheeks and the soft forest floor beneath my feet.
In the few months since I began my daily walks, the sights and sounds and smells of the forest have become ministers to me in ways distinct from the prayers or passages more typically associated with the spiritual journey. As Mary Oliver says in her poem, “When I am Among the Trees,” these walks in the forest “save me, and daily.”
I want to share this poem with you today, alongside images captured from my daily walks over the past few months, in hopes that they might inspire within you a more somatic spirituality that comes to save you, too.
Find this poem and more of my personal favorites, including “When Roses Speak, I Pay Attention,” in Mary Oliver’s volume of poetry entitled Thirst.
How do you practice somatic spirituality? How does incorporating your body into your spiritual practice “save you daily” as Oliver implies? Share your response to the question or the post in the comments.