A dreamboard with milagros from Artchix Studios and lyrics from The Decemberists The fortune cookie paper at the top says, “Your curiosity may mean your success.’

Over at Suzie’s Sacred Space, Miss Suze has once again invited people to make a Dreamboard. Using the Full Moon as a reason to focus, and images and colors as a means to communicate, people join Suzie every month to make their dreams a little more concrete and to offer them up to — well– to God/ess, The Universe, their own internal strength and Divinity…(It’s flexible…you get the idea.)

This is my first dreamboard, made on the only painfree afternoon I’ve had in a fortnight. Realistically, I should have made something envisioning health. But instead I followed The Muse deep into my six month obsession with the lyrics of a song–determined that, somehow, I Was Meant for the Stage.

I don’t know precisely what this means, but I am very curious. Is it as simple as my newfound longing to sing and play at some small open mic for my 40th birthday? Or is it more subtle — maybe something about teaching and preaching again someday? I’m not sure.

All I know is that when I watch Alanis impart wisdom to the crowds, I weep at the wonder of it. And when I speak into my microrecorder for some tiny podcast, my heart soars. And that in addition to my longing to write, and write, and write some more; another lover stands patiently in the shadows. He looks like a mic-stand and a stool, and the dimmed lights of a room full of listeners. And in my better moments, when the pain and strain of day to day life makes way for dreaming and vision, I know in that strange clear stillness, that “I was born to raise these hands with quite all around me.”

So here it is, for what it’s worth, for God and the Universe. Amen, may it be so.

What are you dreaming into reality? Write it in the comments below, or make a dreamboard and link us up to it. Watch for an interview with Suzie this Monday or next in my weekly column at BlogHer.com.

Cate was yelling at me. Again.

Every day it’s the same story. I pick Cate up from school and she happily shows me the new trick she can do on the peddle car; the stone she dug up in the sand pit; how many times she can hop the jump rope on one foot. We find Eden and start the ten minute walk home. By minute seven Cate is screaming about something. Anything.

We started with sympathy, then moved on to time outs, and I’m sure at some point there’s been some yelling on my part as well. Clearly Cate was struggling with the transition between school and home. Clearly she was angry. And clearly whatever she was yelling about was not what was really bothering her.

Finally, I sat her down at the kitchen table and got down at eye level. I addressed her very calmly and very seriously, “Cate. This isn’t working. You’re having trouble moving between being at school and being at home. I can see that you are angry, right?”

“Yes! I. AM. ANGRY!” (also crying)

“It’s totally okay to be angry. But screaming at Mommy is not okay, right?”

“RIGHT! OKAY? OKAY? RIGHT! RIGHT! RIGHT!”

“Did you know anger is a cover-up emotion? It covers up some other emotion. Something else is hiding under there.”

“It is?” (now backing down to mere sniffles)

“Yes. And I need you to think about it and tell me what it is that’s hiding under there.”

With that, the floodgates broke open. She missed all the friends she left behind when we moved. She didn’t have any friends at school. And she missed BF Day (her old school.) And some of the kids said mean things. And she doesn’t know Danish yet. And her only friends who speak English live far, far away. And did she mention, she didn’t have any friends at school?

Well, I’d already addressed all of those things. We talked about how making friends was her superpower, but that it took time. I had reminded her that we had only been at the new school for 2 weeks. I had explained that it would take a little longer than usual because we don’t know Danish yet. But, I had assured her, friends would come.

Knowing I’d already said all of this, and having a not unsmall amount of parental wisdom, I did not go into this again. Instead I asked her a question of clarification, “Cate. Do you want Mommy to talk about all these problems with you, or do you just need someplace to put them all.”

“Like what place?”

“Like a shrine.”

“I could make a shrine?”

Sure could. I dove under my desk and came up with three or four odd little boxes and tins. Cate chose a tin that used to hold bandages – Jesus bandages to be exact. After asking for stickers, tape and some scratch paper, Cate went to work. Soon she had a bonafide Shrine for Hard Feelings. It consisted of the bandage tin, a sticker of a sacred heart Jesus, some fortune cookie sized strips of paper cello-taped to the side, and one of those tiny golf pencils. Cate wrote her hard feelings down on the pieces of paper and tucked them into the tin.

“If I put these in here, Jesus will make the sad feelings go away.” she said.

“Well,” I fine tuned, “Jesus might not make them go all the way away, but at least he can hold them for a little while.”

Cate has been faithfully using the Shrine for Hard Feelings for a week now. Sometimes she’ll start ramping up into a yell-fest, but then you can see her sort of visibly pull up, and she’ll say “Wait a minute,” and go find her shrine. I’ll see her scribbling away, then tucking the paper into the tin and snapping it shut. A few minutes later she’ll be back with me, or her sister, or her dad, and the steam will have been vented.

Sometimes I wonder what all my ad hoc spirituality is teaching my children. I’m trying my best — but so did my parents, and my church, and my religious school — and I sure ended up with a bunch of crap mixed in there with the goodies. If I make up random sacraments, if my children spend their lives building Shrines for Hard Feelings and hurling plates at Anger Altars, will they regret it? I am not sure. But this I believe; my attempts, though small and flawed and most assuredly open for misinterpretation, these humble attempts at caring for these precious souls will teach them these true things

Your feelings are real.
Someone loves you enough to help in hard times.
God is big enough to handle your anger.
There is a place for you.

That seems like a good place to start.

Cross-posted at BlogHer with links to other great blogs about children’s spirituality.

We’ve had various kinds of celebrations for Spring over the years. But I have always hoped to have a gathering for May Day—or what the Celts call Beltane—in celebration of the good earth. In my dreamy gathering we could stand on some patch of soft ground and use our bodies to say ‘thank you’ to Mama and to give her some honor.

So far, this hasn’t come to pass. I tried once, and my children totally derailed me, moving the evening from a night of Om-ing barefoot in the grass, to a night of painting toenails for the upcoming sandal season. Apparently, when you are 4 and 6 it’s way more fun to welcome the Spring with flip-flops and pink polish than to follow your breath while holding a backbend.

Now that I’m here in Denmark and far away from all my friends of the feminine divine, this little dream isn’t likely to come to past anytime soon. But this morning while I was hanging out in Shavasana, it came into my monkey mind that I could get one step closer to this dream by writing the series down. (You know, instead of just holding it in my head and hoping someone will invite me to teach yoga.)

An hour later when I sat down to write my BlogHer editorial about Earth Day, I realized that if I posted said yoga series perhaps, in some small way, we might all be connected just by doing the same practice—even if it is in different times and different places. We are all standing on this same round earth, this big blue marble, right? We might as well call it a party.

So here is my short series of Yoga Poses for Mama, from me, the wannabe priestess, to you my sister friends. May they connect your spirit to the creative, nurturing energy of sand and soil, sea and sky, meadow and mountain. Namaste! Read the rest of this entry »

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!

When I was practicing a traditional form of Christianity, there were times when I felt absolutely weighed down by the number of spiritual practices I was “supposed” to be participating in. Worship songs. Small groups. Prayer meetings. Private devotions. Bible study. Acts of charity. Evangelism. The list was endless.

In addition to the wearying psychic weight of that long list of spiritual to-dos, was the undeniable underlying reality that few if any of those spiritual practices did much for me. True there were times in my spiritual life when some of them helped some of the time. But eventually I came to a point where engaging in those practices no longer helped me feel closer to God, made me a better person, or brought shalom (wholeness) into my world or anybody else’s. Finally, I got the message. Finally, I let them go.

The thing about deconstructing your religious practices is that eventually, your soul will probably start shouting, “Hey! I’m still hungry down here.” That’s when you have to get busy with the reconstructive process. The time will come when you’ll need to find the things that will feed your soul, connect you to something sacred, or just generally bulk up your karma.

Ta da! The blogosphere to the rescue! Here are some great non-religion-specific soulful practices that might scratch where it itches. Why not surf around and see if you intuitively respond to any of them, then try out the ones that sound good?

Ask yourself, “What is it you really want?”: Liz LaMoureux over at Be Present, Be Here (which, by the way, is my current mantra) tells us a story about being brave enough to ask for what she wants. Liz’s story is an affirmation to each of us, reminding us: “You are not too much. You are not asking too much.” This once again brings to mind that familiar but powerful saying:

“What would you attempt to do if you knew you would not fail?”

Go ahead. Follow Liz and make a list – ask the universe for what you really want.

Enjoy the View: What are the snapshot images that make up who you are and what you value? Jen at One Plus Two gives her inspiring views, and challenges you to make your own list. What will your view memories reveal? (Special props to Tiny Mantras for linking me to Jen’s site.)

Capture Your Dreams: Suzie Sacred recommends that you get all paste-and-scissory with your fine self and make a dream board of what you are imaging for yourself. Sometimes we get a little stagnant and find ourselves living into our past dreams instead of extending our hands to our now-and-not-yet imaginings. Suzie asks,

“Are the images you collect out of date for who you are today? What do you need to add to your life now that these things have changed?”

Head over to her place for links to a bunch of inspiring dream boards, then sit down and make one for yourself. (Big thanks to Mother Henna for directing us to Suzie.)

Give it Up:

A young girl asks a wise old woman, "How does one become a butterfly?"
With a twinkle in her eye, the old woman replies, "You must be willing to give up being a caterpillar."

Last but not least, Blossoming Soul asks “What are you ready to give up.” Her post inspired me to make my list awhile back (several, actually) and can testify that it was literally life changing. Be bold! Ask yourself, "What am I ready to give up in order to make room for something wonderful?"

Have you got a practice that feeds your soul? Share it in the comments below, or post it and leave us the link.

Namaste!

P.s. I’ll be looking for great posts about spirituality/faith and the environment for next week. If you’ve got a good one up, be sure to let me know. Email me: moi @ magpie-girl dot com.

This article is cross-posted at BlogHer as a part of my regular Monday posts on Religion and Spirituality. See you there!

One year in college, a couple decades ago, my girlfriends and I decided to wear black on Valentines’ Day. We were all boyfriendless at the time, and Spring had hit early so couples were coming out the dorms like moths from a wardrobe.

Then, many years later, a professor of mine asked me my story. I told her all the basics: where I grew up, what my undergraduate degree was in, when I got married. When she asked me how old I was when I got married, and the age “23″ came out of my mouth, this wise woman nodded her head and said, “Oh, so you’ve never been single.”

No, I have never been single. I went straight from a small Methodist college, where (almost) everyone was not so much single as just not-married-yet; on to graduation; and then straight to “Here Comes the Bride.” I never lived a day in the life as a single gal.

But she had, my 50-something thesis advisor, and many of my girlfriends have as well–either as women who have not married, or who have married and are single again. And aside from marriage, there’s also the reality of girlfriends who have had long-term partners and common law unions, and then found themselves by choice or by circumstance on the single side of the chart once again.

These women do not live lives of bereavement. They are not bereft. And whether they are single by choice or by circumstance, all of them have built lives that are as full and rich as any woman with a ring on her left hand and someone else’s clothes in her closet.

So every year, on Valentine’s Day, I remember that year in protest black, and that a-ha moment with my professor, and it prompts me to post this blessing. I wrote it out of love for St. Lucy, for my single friends, and for the passionate heart of St. Valentine. If you are single, I hope it is a gift to you today. Thank you for living lives of admiration, and for putting up with all of us who go all gooey under the influence of paper hearts.

With Love and Respect,

Rachelle

A big ‘thank you’ to everyone who commented or emailed me about the Budding Feminist reviews.

Writing about those two books got me to thinking about just how much those authors have influenced me. Reading them opened a flood gate, and new ideas and rituals came to me by the fistful. To honor that experience, and to express gratitude, here’s a list of posts from my first blog that are representative of what came out of my spiritual feminine awakening…

__________________

A Guided Meditation on the Feminine Divine.

A Healing Rite with Hot Stones

Opening Blessing for the Powerhouse (communal art studio) at the Summer Solstice

Saying Goodbye to the White Guys

Little Altars Everywhere: Up in Smoke

Little Altars Everywhere: Recovering She

The Womb of Life and the concept of We

There’s probably more filed under rites and rituals. If I can, I’ll hunt down the good ones for you.

Thanks for being with me on the journey!

-Rachelle

Children lighting candles-as-prayer at the peace installation, December 2004. Photograph by My True Self.

Today is the first Sunday of Advent (from the Latin, meaning ‘to wait’). It is the time in which Jesus-y folks everywhere prepare for the arrival of Emmanuel, God-with-Us. (The very concept of that possiblity give me anticipatory chills.)

Last year Advent went by in a flash, and my carefully cultivated discipline of keeping a peaceful, presence-ful schedule evaporated in a sea of poor planning. Ironically, in the midst of packing for an international move, this year we seem to be approaching this season with a more reasonable sense of time. To help this along, the note on my fridge says, “Today will unfold with measured grace,” and I am carefully prioritizing our calendar to help my family sink into this beautiful season.

Tonight we will go to “A Tranquil Advent Evening” at the cathedral on the hill. Though I’ve offered to let them beg off, the girls have both asked to go. They will be content to walk the labyrinth and light the peace candles while Momma –who was raised singing cantatas every year in the school choir — will join in the singing the gregorian chants and the verses of the O Anitphons, inviting the peace of Christ to come and dwell amongst us. My favorite verse, as always, will be verse eight: “O come, Desire of nations, bind in one the hearts of all mankind; bid thou our sad divisions cease, and be thyself our King of Peace. ”

The first time I came to this service on the hill, a profound sensory experience surrounded me, forever altering my experience of the Advent season. Here are my memories from that Advent, three years ago.

____________________________________________________________________________

Last night we went to “A Tranquil Advent Evening” at St. Mark’s Cathedral. The labyrinths were all candlelit, as were the steps to the altar. There was a classical guitar, a bevy of peace candles, perfectly executed Gregorian chants, a stellar harp.

It was raining outside, as it had been all week, and I had become acustomed to the constant drip. But inside the cathedral, I wasn’t prepared for weather’s resplendent sound.

It was as if the wind had decided to roar and sweep only around the cathedral walls. As if the rest of the city had been abandoned by her touch, that she might rally around this one space, this one focal point, her tendrical arms weaving and circling only around the deep, quiet nave.

“I am in a ship,” I thought, behind closed eyes, “below deck, and out of the way in my berth while the crew works to outstand the storm. Or perhaps we are all below, grasping tin mugs of coffee, working with the sway of the sea, hoping for the best, now that we’ve battened down the hatches.

No, it is more like a submarine, submerged and silent and waiting—hoping not to be heard by the enemy, hoping to be found by rescue rather than salvage.

Or perhaps we are Jonah, sloshing amongst fish bones, listening to the sounds of digestion, praying for rapture.”

Then another thought sprang into my consciousness—more true for its unbiddeness, for it’s unlooked for appearance…

“We are in a womb, in this strong walled Mary. We hear, not the howl of a storm, but the pulsing and swish of the stuff of our own making, the life-blood of our own to-be-ing. Hoping. Waiting. Being very still, yet very present.

Are these not the actions of both the mother in pregnancy, and the infant in utero? Mary’s song, the howl and swirl of heartbeats, the rush of blood in the vein. Entombed. Enwombed. Either way, a closing-in before the reality of new life, shown in a crowning head, in the left-behind emptiness or an abandoned tomb.

Advent, to wait. Emmanuel, to come. Oh! What could it be, if we would hold both words in one space– hold them there, between the roof of your mouth and the top of your tongue; soft in between the hollow of your cheeks, holding two truths in the loose-jawed spaciousness.

To Wait. To Come. Do you feel the void between these phrases? It spills out, whispering, “hold steady, be present.”

Breathe in…the sound swirls inside this still, incubating space where words come, waiting to be birthed into a reality. They hover amongst your teeth. Exhale….your breath hanging like a plea. “O come!”

To learn more about my Advent-y world, visit my previous blog Urban Abbess and choose ‘December’ in the archives window, or browse through the ‘rites and rituals’ category. Thank you for reading.

A tiny tin-shrine memorial with a dried rose from my hospital flowers. Made for Dia de los Muertos celebrations at Monkfish Abbey, November ‘05.

“Lord, let now your servant, depart in peace according to thy word. For my eyes have seen thy salvation…”

He was very tiny, about the length of my arm from my elbow to my wrist. The nurse, nervous and new at this kind of sorrow, had eventually managed to wrap him in blankets, one small arm extending outside of the heap, his hand so frail I was afraid to touch it lest I tear his fragile skin.

We had wept so many tears for him, our doomed son. Tears in the dark sonogram room; tears when my knees collapsed in the hospital stairway; tears when we told our parents; tears as we waited all the long week to see him delivered; tears in the cold procedures room as the new nurse fled and we were left to deliver our baby alone.

There were more tears now, as we played him special songs, anointed his head in our own private baptism, sang him chants from my Lutheran childhood. Tear as we set him in the infant warmer — now disconnected and cold — to say goodbye.

Later, a union would go on strike and his ashes would wait for weeks at the crematorium before we could claim them. A small plastic bag in a square cardboard box, sealed tight with a twist tie and silver dog tag bearing not his name, but his case number, long and unfamiliar. We would cry again then, finally retrieving his remains, and dusting the water with him on the edge of the sound.

My mother cried these same tears for her first child, drugged and foggy as she came to from the delivery room. Empty arms wondering where her son had gone. My aggrieved father explaining the still birth, full term but not fulfilled. She never got to see her son, to hold his hand, to say goodbye. It just wasn’t done in those days. The hospital ferried him away without even a gravestone. The nursery packed up and painted before she was released to come home. Even now, he doesn’t have a name.

As a young teen, I read a story where a girl hides from school bullies in the shed of a cemetery. There she finds a statue of a child who had died long ago. The base of the statue read, “Our beloved Benjamin.” That’s how I think of my long lost brother — as Benjamin, uncle to Simeon, who also left too soon.

It is not within my rights to name my mother’s son as Benjamin, but I can name–did name–my own. And today, on this day to remember the dead, I remember Simeon David Chapman, who made me a mother, who is this mother’s only son.

Order Here

Mmmmm…Fall is here, time to put on your warm socks, find your favorite blanket and curl up with a good read. Lucky you! My Fall zine is ready for you, just in time!

Volume three of a four-season series, the zine is dedicated to the some of the seasonal celebrations we practice in our home: Ramadan, Rosh Hashanah, Sukkot, a 9/11 remembrance, and our communal meal. You’ll also find recipes, collages, and the next saint in my Saints and Sinners collection. The first ten orders will also receive an extra saint card to give a friend.

May the spirit of gratitude that accompanies this season be instilled deep within you!

Shalom,

Rachelle