Tag — monkfish abbey
The Soultribe Practitioner Interviews: Melissa Lindgren and the Knitta’s
A few months ago I listened to a TAL episode entitled The Giant Pool of Money. It’s an excellent explanation of the mortgage crises that is sweeping the nation – but for right now that’s neither here nor there. The reason I mention it is that the title burrowed its way into my brain, and now all I can think of is the phrase “A Giant Pool of Wisdom.” It’s a good phrase, don’t you think? And I am confident that we – you, and I, and all the lurkers out here (Hi lurkers! I love ya!) -can form such a pool. In fact, I know that we already have enough wisdom to fill that pool to overflowing. We’ve just got to share it.
So in our on-going efforts to figure out how to create our own Soultribes, I’m dipping into the pool and bringing up refreshing goodness one ladle at a time. To begin, I’m happy to introduce the very sassy, very funny friend Melissa Lindgren as our first guest in the Soultribe Practitioner Interview Series. (I know, she’s so fun right? Already you want to be her friend!)
Melissa and I met at our former Soultribe, Monkfish Abbey. Now she is a Soultribe facilitator hosting a knitting and storytelling group in Seattle, Washington. In this interview she talks about gathering her tribe, adjusting expectations, and figuring out what she values in a Soultribe.
Mis, Could you tell us what kind of Soultribe you belong to: What do you call it? How big is it? How often do you meet? How long have you been together as a group?
For the last 8 months a group of friends and I have come together to knit. We calling it “The Knitting Group” or simply ”Knitting” (I tried “The Knitstas” and “The Knitta’s” but they really didn’t take) It started out with about 15 of us and has shrunk to about 8.
What was it about story that made you want to form a group around storytelling? What do you think is valuable in sharing our stories?
My University of Washington research has centered on knitting and storytelling as tools to form community. As I’ve drifted further and further away from concrete concepts of spirituality, and even further from conventional forms of church, I was in need of a weekly group that could give my life more rhythm and community. So I started a knitting group and began researching how telling stories and knitting together can form a powerful community.
I wanted to add stories to a knitting circle, because I’m in the business of stories. It’s what I do. I think there are a lot of things we do that are instinctive to us. And some of us are lucky when our interests also have a long history of being important, as it gives us meaning and a certain sense of legitimacy.
Stories are something so very basically human–they are a way of being remembered, remembering, owning, teaching, loving, laughing, being known…And I am drawn to stories for all of those reasons. But the real reason I included stories in my knitting group is because I love to hear a good story, I’m good at telling my own, and that’s how I wanted to wile the Seattle evenings away.
It is in no way lost on me that I chose a traditionally women-oriented craft (knitting) with another craft that has a somewhat complicated relationship with women (story-telling/having a voice). My group was really intentioned to be a space that glorified the story more than the storyteller–I wanted to hear well-crafted stories–stories that had a lot of depth, intrigue, humor, and suspense.
What does your typical evening together look like? Who decides what you will do together? Who facilitates?
I’m the facilitator, I decide. :-) I started this group as a way to get together with my friends and as an independent study for my B.A. in English. The goal was to come together and knit and tell stories. I sent out emails every week telling people the topic of the stories and re-iterating the location (my living room).
Though people participated in the story-telling it really wasn’t what was driving the group. So I backed off with the stories and just sort of let the group chit and chat where it wanted. These were decisions i more or less made on my own, but were usually bounced off of a friend or two in the group.
What kind of people attend? How did you initially find and gather these folks? How do people find you now that you’ve been around for a while?
The kind of people who attend are the out-going-est of my friends who are interested in knitting. I initially invited everyone I wanted to see on a weekly basis, but it has shrunk to people who need some sort of weekly outside social group. Though it sometimes feels like we are cousins with lives completely known to each other, often someone in the group will invite an unknown visitor who we all smother and gawk over. :-) Some people just want a lesson in knitting or are stuck in a project and come to get help and then fade back into their normal Wednesday night routines without us.
How long did it take your group to gel? What was that process like? If you got to a sticky point where you weren’t sure it was working out, how did you know to press on? When did you know you had “clicked” together?
Hmm. There was a core group that already knew and liked each other. If other people were uncomfortable or weren’t having fun, they just didn’t come back. I often tried to bribe them back because my core group needs to expand itself a little more. My bribes weren’t very bribe-y though.
I had a couple people who came who were young, loud, and didn’t listen to other people’s stories. It was greatly irritating and slightly amusing. But the point, at least at first, was to knit and learn to tell great stories. So the next week, I added that after each story 3 questions would have to be asked to the teller before we could move on to the next story. This was to help our listening skills and our story telling skills (it’s a good practice to examine why we include or exclude certain parts of a story). But the noisy youngin’s didn’t come back. And I eventually took them off the email list. I have to admit I felt relieved when they didn’t come back, but I also felt old. Very very old. (Rachelle says: I would like to insert here, that Melissa is in her twenties and one of my youngest friends, so the old things is kind of cracking me up.)
Why do you think people come to your group? What does being together do for you? What are the benefits of belonging to this kind of Soultribe?
Right now, people come to hang out. But there were a couple months in there that people came to connect in a soft comfortable way.
I once asked the group what kind of stories they loved to hear and it was always stories that were personal, stories the teller had connected to. When I asked what kind of listener they liked to tell stories to, they described someone who could enjoy the details and the setup, feel sad at the sad parts, feel tense at the build-up, and laugh at the jokes (even if they weren’t the best of jokes). Basically they not only described themselves, they described someone who could connect to their stories. And that’s why we met for awhile–to connect to each other through our stories.
What did you think your group would be like? How did it actually turn out? What’s that like for you?
I thought all sorts of different friends would come together and eventually we would be the group that when it was your turn to tell a story, you put your knitting down and walked around the room telling these grand stories (and the group size would be about 10-15 of the closest wisest and funniest people).
But really we just sort of sat in our chairs unless getting a snack or asking for help and told stories that almost always started out with “Heh, that reminds me of this one time…”
It was a little sad for me at first. And it made my research project a little harder. But there were several meetings that were exactly what I wanted, which felt great. But it takes a surprising amount of planning, creativity, intentionality and tenacity to get a group of people to willingly do what you want. It’s like herding kittens-or worse, herding children. I mean, most people don’t naturally want to do what you want them to, and this is something worth grappling with. And drinking about.
What would you have done differently in the early days of your Soultribe? What did you do that worked well in the early days of your Soultribe’s development?
I think I would have been more specific in wanting it to center around stories more. I thought that I could just sort of sneak them in and people would automatically respond with great stories and accolades of “I HAVE FOUND MY VOICE!” I think I lacked a certain confidence in my desire.
What did work were comfy chairs and snacks. Everytime. And good snacks too. Also, re-assuring people many, many times that it was ok if they didn’t know how, they could learn to knit. Many people learned to knit for the first time, or learned something new.
What other tidbits would you like to add to our giant pool of wisdom?
One thing I wish I would have been told as a kid, was that there is no way one person was going to be everything you needed. Oh the agonizing conversations in my head, “My partner makes me laugh and treats me with so much respect and love…but he doesn’t know how to talk about books…we’re probably not meant to be together!” I have learned to include more people in my interaction needs. And it has made my relationships so much richer now that the pressure is off.
The same, I think, could be said of Soultribes. I think they are capable of being a central community for people but most likely not the ONLY community–which is something probably more obvious to the group than the facilitator.
Okay now readers, your turn! What ideas and inspirations grabbed you after hearing Melissa’s story? What questions do you have for one another? What are you taking away (or putting in to) the Giant Pool fo Wisdom today? Feel free to muse away in the comments below….
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*8 Things: Gifts from My Soultribe
Writing about Soultribes has got me to reminiscing about my last clan, Monkfish Abbey. Here are *8 Things the monkfishers gave me, which I will treasure always.
1. The Poet Chill Out CD Isreal made for us.
2. A binder full of soup recipes.
3. Six months of living with Rebecca.
4. The fun of watching Ammelia and Lindell negotiate themselves into a relationship.
5. Discovering lectio divina and adding collage.
6. Prayer Flags.
7. A collection of seasonal practices which still support my family.
8. Good memories from the artistic pagans at Fremont Arts Council.
What *8 Things has your last, past, or current Soultribe given you?
Sacred Life Sunday: Solstice Blessing
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.
And may light shine out of the two eyes of you,
Like a candle set in the window of a house,
Bidding the wanderer to come in out of the storm.
-a traditional Celtic blessing
The front porch of our Seattle home.
Solstice, Stonehenge, Solitude
a small sketch from my travel journal
It’s the night of Summer solstice. At home in Seattle the sun is at its highest right now, and hopefully the skies are clear to give the locals some much-onged for warmth during this cold Summer on this, their most treasured day. Here in Copenhagen–which is not yet home—the sun is starting to set, though the light has barely ebbed. Well after ten o’clock I can still read easily in the twilight glow that’s stretching over our high city balcony.
John Mayer is in town, the poet whose blues have sustained me through these strange and wrenching times. I searched for tickets—begged, borrowed and threatened to steal in two languages—but alas, none were to be found. Instead I’m sneaking smokes and playing all the live songs I could download one after another too loudly through the open windows of the living room. Message in Bottle (which I once heard Sting perform on an awkward date in an enormous arena). My Stupid Mouth (The Blogger’s Lament.) 83 (whimsical. nostalgic.) And finally, Gravity, my touchstone, my anchor.
I have been dreading this day, alone and away from my community on one of our most holy days. Paul is at a work party. One which has a reputation for being a bit of an orgy. One to which spouses are not invited. The girls are asleep after what for me was an exhausting night of homemade pizza, sing-a-long movies, and reading aloud extraordinary long chapters of Harry Potter. The grand finale for mom was one of those long, drawn out bedtimes only clever children can create, and enough dishes to make a restaurateur cry. But now that I’m here, alone with the dog, listening to John and watching the swallows dart after invisible insects; I find that I am actually okay in with this solitude, watching the sun slip into sleep, being grateful for the light.
At Stonehenge this morning the sun crested over softly arching hills, struck the blue-hued Heelstone, and drove its light between the arches of the great trilithon. Hundreds were there in dreadlocks and druid robes, smelling of travel and patchouli, trying to name something unnamable, making it up as they go along. Isn’t that what we all do? Cobble something together from shards of history and intuitive pull? Look for the meeting point between what we know and what we hope to be true?
I was at Stonehenge not long ago, fresh from the opulence of Europe’s finest cathedrals, ready to be unimpressed by a ring of stones surrounded by security fencing. I was surprised to find such holiness there, walking in a round where people have paced for thousands of years; waiting for the shard of light to crack the sky; hoping for a life continued. I followed the tour and when I reached the Heelstone, paused to touch its side. As I felt the warmth of the sarsen stone under my hand, I noticed a young woman walking counter clockwise to the organized tour, her shoes in her hand, her feet on holy ground. Seeing her example, I wanted suddenly to sink to my knees. It was all I could to do still my voice, to not incant ‘Holy, Holy, Holy.’ But I was unaccustomed of being a stranger in a strange land for so many long months, worn down from always sticking out, from always being obvious. I did not have the confidence to kneel in front of so many tourists in windbreakers and cameras. (Who knew the bending of the knee could be an act requiring so much strength?) Iinstead I stayed my hand on the stone, leaned my weight into my palm, and let my soul pour out thanks. Gratitude for the light. Gratitude for continuance. Gratitude for all that we need to go on.
It was not, and this is not, the Solstice I have come to remember. It is not the riotous and ridiculous parade; the familiar and homespun pageant built with our own hands; the silly, colorful crowd of thousands. Instead it is a new lesson in holy moments—stumbled upon alone (yet with casts of thousands now past); a mishmash of vices and virtues, of new songs and old stones. I feel as though I am soaking somehow in this history, in this present, and in the sun—always our promise of a future. I am melted. I am melded, somehow, me in this chair alone. And I think—held in this mystery of solitude amidst the companionship of souls—I think as the sun now fades, “Dayenu, it is enough.”
Passover
Eden, then five, sits pretty and pensive at our passover table.
This is the first time in eight years that we won’t be celebrating Pesach (Passover) with our community. Our dishes and haggadah (prayer books) have arrived, but we’ve yet to gather the kind of friends that would want to take part in a 4 hours meal with this electic goy girl. I’m treating my Passover jones by writing about how I got started celebrating with a Seder. You can find that story over in my weekly post at BlogHer. And here’s some pretty pictures, taken by my friend Emily Button, from our first Passover with Monkfish Abbey, back in 2004.
Anointing everyone at the table before going in to dinner.
On Passover, we eat reclining on a pillow to show that we are free. (Slaves weren’t allowed to eat reclining.)
A full glass is sign of joy. Here we diminish the wine in our glass to signify solidarity with those who suffer.
Paul serves up matzo ball soup to Catie. (3 yrs)
Solstice Blessing
This is what we read around the table last week at Solstice. I rather like it, if I do say so myself. :
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We gather around this table tonight because we have traveled through the grey season to return first to Spring, and now to Summer. We have made it through the storms and the cold, the wetness and the drizzle–and we come now to this the longest day, to this abundance of light. So we stop for a moment to remember our journey, to celebrate this gift, and to give thanks.
At this table we have a great bounty, the labor of many hands and many talents. And we have, as we always do, a loaf of bread and a glass of wine. To some of us these simple foods remind us to be grateful. We see the staples and we think, ‘Ah, we have what we need.” To some of us these symbolic foods remind us of Jesus; they remind us to value what he valued – the sharing of life and provisions, the giving of thanks. For some of us the bits of grain in this loaf and the grapes crushed into this cup remind us that we are all part of one great family, birthed of one mother, living together in unity.
No matter who or what is a part of your story, we all have good reason to be here at this table on Solstice, during this time of light. Tonight we belong together. Tonight there is enough. [Read more →]
Reflections on a Summer’s Evening
It is the last day of May and my children are scampering through the sprinklers. It is like miracle, to be this lovely and warm so early in the sunny season. It feels as though the whole city is breathing a sigh of relief and sinking back into the lawn furniture, which they’ve only just now got brave enough to pull out from the basement to expose to the elements.
It’s Monkfish Abbey night –which, for those of you reading this post on my Magpie Girl site—is a small house church/spiritual growth community that we’ve hosted for several years now. The RSVP’s for this week have been trickling in and our numbers are teeny tiny. The summer siren song of house guests and outdoor haunts has already begun to lure people away to pursuits that can only be enjoyed a few scant weeks out of the year. As the priestess of all things seasonal, I’m totally fine with these sun-induced absences. There is nothing more important in the Northwest than enjoying the sun while you can. It’s a big part of taking care of your body and your soul while living here in this semi-hospitable climate.
Hosting Monkfish Abbey is always a bit of an uncomfortable jobfor me. At first I called myself a pastor and tried to do churchy things to keep everyone nice and saved/safe. Then I started seeing myself more as a spiritual director and I spent some time teaching people contemplative practices, because that is what my Type A personality needed the most. And as my ordaining mentor always says, “You only preach the sermons you need to hear.” My hope—our hope as founding members—has always been that this would be a teaching-learning community with a lot of equal footing, the sort of place where everybody could play. It’s taken me a long time to let go of old, patriarchal, hierarchical church habits. It’s only very recently that I’ve been acting more like a simple hostess—vesting the space with peace and cleanliness, making sure there’s TP in the bathroom and cutlery on the table. On my best days, this seems as natural to me as breathing. Other times, when I’m worn down it is very very hard. There’s a lot of sweeping involved–sweeping and washing dishes, and emptying ash trays. That probably doesn’t seem like much, but as you know I am sickly, and kind of a whiner. So some weeks, it feels like a lot. But no matter how burned out I am on the prep-and-clean-up, I always get a little lift when everyone is here. I always feel happy that we are not living alone, an isolated family with 2.5 kids in a house that’s made of ticky tacky and they all look just the same. Every Thursday night, when I go to bed, I am grateful.
More and more often other people are making the meals and offering the post-dinner activity, with me offering some small semblance of a ‘spiritual development’ activity just once in every 3 or 4 weeks. It’s pretty far removed from the senior pastor model of church life where the ordained person controls and takes care of nearly everything, their finger in every pie and their signature on every sermon. For most our exisistence as a community I’ve struggled with this lack of active guidance, and I rarely feel satisfied with how well I’m taking care of our little monkish life. There’s a lot of self talk telling me that I’m not doing a good job as a “pastor,” followed by a great deal of guilt that I’ve quite possibly left my real vocation behind at the mothership/motherchurch. Shouldn’t I be consistently offering people some sort of lesson? Shouldn’t I meet with people one-on-one during the week? Shouldn’t we be cracking open the Bible, or at least reading some of the dozens of religious non-fiction books publishers send me throughout the year? Shouldn’t we, you know, pray?
Simultaneous to all this worry is the undeniable compulsion to write, collage, and generally muck about in my studio – basically doing anything but pastoring. It makes me wonder what in the world a person with a master’s in theology is doing crafting zines and knitting rabbits. At the same time, these newfound studio loves are what brings me the most joy. I can’t imagine relegating this artist-work to the sidelines of my living.
When my best self is present–when I am the most centered and most aware– my guiding voice says, “You know, your pastoring self is doing just fine. You shouldn’t be doing any of those religiousy things, not any more than you are anyway. Really. It’s just fine. Go pick up your paintbrush.” It’s a peculiar thing – that all the things I’ve been preaching over the years – ‘everything we do is worship’ and ‘art creates holy space’ and ‘conversation is prayer” —all of these things are actually becoming real, and my very silly self is having a hard time believing it. It’s as though I’d hoped Willy Wonka’s factory was really, and now that I’m in the midst of the multi-colored glory of it all I’m blinking my eyes and waiting for it to disappear.(Go ahead dear, you can even eat the dishes.)
When I stop worrying long enough to ask myself “what’s really gone on this past year at Monkfish?,” I actually get a rather nice answer. We’ve talk about our lives. We’ve wrestle off and on with how to be more giving and more justice seeking. We’ve given money to good causes now and again. We’ve mourn the damage our old faith practices have done to us and others. We’ve gotten angry about stuff. We’ve engaged in our own forms of intercession and hope. We’ve put our toes in the water and to try to find new ways of being and doing and living. All of that seems pretty good really, even if it’s done in a very quiet, very laid back way. It all squares nicely with the way Jesus lived (especially all that wine!); it’s nicely moral, and its not been too damaging with the dogma. Not bad really, for a bunch of renegades and a heterodox pastor.
This summer we are closing Monkfish – at least at our house—for six weeks. I don’t think we’ve had more than two weeks off in a row since we started in 2003, so I guess it’s time for a sabbatical. When we return, if people return, I’ll continue to “hold space until something good can get born.” (Jen says that, or maybe Anne, or both.)
So, if you’re reading this on the Urban Abbess site, things will be quiet for awhile – maybe for good, as I’m considering rolling all my writing into one site again. Where on sabatical, you see, trusting the Muse and enjoying the sun. This site will stay up for your perusal and my storage purposes. Maybe I’ll see you again in the Fall. Until then, enjoy the sun, be good to each other, and eat lots of watermelon. Namaste, and God(ess) bless!
Much shalom,
Rachelle
