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Listen to me, you who pursue righteousness, you who seek God
Look to the rock from which you were hewn,
and to the quarry from which you were dug.
Look to Abraham and to Sarah who bore you;
For they were but two when I called them,
but once I blessed them they multiplied.

God will comfort Zion; God will comfort all her waste places,
God will comfort all her mounds of ruins.
I will transform her dead ground into Eden,
her moonscape into the garden of God,
a place filled with exuberance and laughter…

This was the lectionary reading from Isaiah this Sunday. When I heard it read aloud in the clipped Danish accent of Hanna, my sister in liturgical ministry, I was immediately transported back to Stonehenge, where I lay my hand upon an ancient heel stone. It made me think of my ancestry, held in ancient stories, and of my—of our—deep connection to the earth. These words and this memory released inside me a wellspring of gratitude for the very real connection I have to such an ancient heritage.

When I returned home and read the text again, I was struck by the feminine language that Isaiah uses for Zion. This is a word which has many meanings, but perhaps most meaningfully to me is how it holds the idea of homeland–the physical or metaphysical place in which we find our source, our identity and our solace. It encouraged me to know that this ancient statement of true things, this old poet’s tongue, still stands. It is an affirmation to me and to my soulsisters, known and unknown, who are feeling as though bits of them have been converted in mounds of ruin–who feel as though they are living in wasted places.

As my dear Jen always says, “Whatever you do hold on to hope…that this is not the end of your story.” Our sisters, our mothers, our ancestral Sarah’s, have been holding on to the hope that the homeland of our hearts and hearths would be comforted—would be made into gardens like unto Eden. Whatever you do today, in whatever way you can, hold on to hope—like a seed in your palm, like the scrap of a fortune cookie paper cupped in your hand. For this is not the end of our story, but the very place from which it is born. Amen. May it be so.

click for more podcasts: Beaches and Bodies, The Care and Keeping of Sacred Stories.
click to learn more about Sacred Sunday.

This is my dreamboard for August as I pray/wish/hope for shalom in my physical self.

Last month’s dream of curtains and spotlights is still alive and kicking. I’m still playing guitar, and I’m working with a life coach to figure out what that mysterious phrase might mean for me.

For more information about dreamboarding click here. Good shabbat to you!

I enjoy the architecture of holy spaces: churches, abbeys, monasteries, temples of all types. Europe suits such a fancy, and lets me see a wide variety of structures meant to honor something – though what they honor is sometimes a bit off from the original goal. This week we are on holiday at Børnholm: Denmark’s only rocky island! (Sometimes the Danglish on signs can be quite amusing. My favorite so far is “Feminism Squats my Heart”…but I digress.) Børnholm has proven to be far more charming than its English tourism by-line. It’s a pretty leafy island in the Baltic Sea, with fine sandy beaches, clear water, and pretty woods through which to bike. In addition to home brewed brown ale (quite nice) and smoked herring (not so nice), Bornholm’s claim to fame includes several Rundekirks – round stone churches white washed to a gleaming brilliance. We were lucky enough to visit a couple of these unique bulwarks, which have served as a combination places-of-worship-cum-look-out-towers since the early 1100’s.

I was particularly struck by Nylars Kirke, the smallest and least significant of the bunch. It’s stolid bulk and cool interior is just the type of space that appeals to me – old, earth-rooted, and simple. I was compelled to touch things there. I ran my fingers along the rim of the grey stone of the baptismal fount, planted firm in the center of the building; placed my palms on the stout center column and felt the wisdom held in its age; ran my hands along the curving outer walls to feel the warmth of the sun-kissed wash and the underlying chill of the hewed stones.

These are the kind of places that speak of home to me—these simple rooms with history in their walls, with time poured into their mortar. It is in these nearly abandoned places, anchored deep in the unwinding days of time, where I my footing can be found.

That’s my daughter in the water….

This splash is dedicated to Miss Jenny, who’s holding grief and hope in the same small hand. Thank you Jenny, for reminding us all of the healing power of FUN!

Our solstice fire from last summer. Photo by madgiddy.

May light dominate your life in these coming days.
May the moments of darkness be far outnumbered by the presence of light.

When you next gather around the table in your homes may you remember light, and love, and the sun.

May these moments of holy time help us all to remember that the world spins, and the tide turns and the nights grow shorter – and regardless of our will or our work, the gift of Light Returning happens over and over and over again.

May the blessing of light be upon you –
Light without and light within.
May the blessed sunlight shine on you like a great fire,
So that stranger and friend may come and warm themselves at it.

-a traditional Celtic blessing

The front porch of our Seattle home.

click watch a joyful romp

mother’s prayer #105

may my children for always
feel this at home in
their holy, beautiful bodies.
amen.

in just-
spring when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame baloonman

whistles far and wee

and eddieandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it’s
spring

when the world is puddle-wonderful

the queer
old baloonman whistles
far and wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing

from hop-scotch and jump-rope and

it’s
spring
and
the

goat-footed

baloonMan whistles
far
and
wee

-e.e. cummings

Catie displays her hope note for a soulmate in Rwanda.

There was no church for us today, at least not in a cathedral. Still, I’m pretty sure we were playing in heaven’s backyard when we joined up with HopeRevo. This afternoon Cate and I worshiped at the altar of hope–crayolas and markers our consecrated objects, water and paints our bread and wine.

The women of Rwanda have taught me more about grief, hope, and forgiveness than any sermon of hymn could convey, and I’m happy my daughters and I can join them in their knowledge, exchanging hope across the miles.

Here’s Catie’s hope note to a Rwandan girl her age. They haven’t met each other, but very soon this card will unite their hearts. You can play in the fields of hope too! Click here and join our church service already in progress. Here’s to Hope and all her siblings!

“mukobwa-wurwanda niwowe mbaraga zigihugu uwize aramenya, abakobwa babanya merica bwaragu shyigikiye.” Translation: Rwandanese girls; you are the power behind your country! Someone who learns is the one who knows best. American girls are supporting you!

mother mary calls to me, whispers words of wisdom…

The stones lie here, behind a building, beneath a sign, under the shadow of the grand cathedral. Once, sometime before 1100, there was a church here, dedicated to the Virgin Mary. This is what is left. This, and a small sign, first in Swedish and then roughly translated into English:

“This was Sancta Maria Minor, Little Mary’s church. The people loved Mary. She understood their language.’”

Is that what we long for, when we search for the feminine divine? Something Mary reflects in pale shadow? Someone who understand our language? I think yes. I think so.

“In my times of darkness is she is standing there in front of me, speaking words of wisdom….” Play us out boys…