I struggle to live in the moment. So often I am casting my gaze back in regret and longing, or throwing myself forward in to future worries. I know it’s healthiest for me to live mostly in the Now. But to the Now I feel foreign born, and like an adopted child returning to the place of her birth, I must work a little harder to feel at home on what is truly my native land.

I notice this most when Summer fades to Fall, and the days begin to shorten. I start missing the Light even before she is gone. Start longing for her while she is yet by my side. And in doing so I waste the last long rays of her presence.

This then is my attempt to stay with her, to stay present as long as she is still here.  To remain alert to her companionship. To “…follow the day and reach for the sun.”Later when she is gone, these images may hold her near to me a little longer yet, until she gently moves my hand from her hers, pats my shoulder, and tells me to lean into the next season until she returns.  

 How do you stay present to the edge of this season? What will you need to transition into the next?

He comes to me in my dreams, this child of my heart, separated now seas and ages.

Sometimes the dreams are all absurdity. Last night in my somnolence he came to me with a new love. I asked after her:  what captivated? what called? His serious reply: “She taught me the word “Huntington’s.” Ah, what meaning in that then? Pizza for dinner, perhaps.

Othertimes they are wrought with meaning — Jungian symbols all in a row.  He is lost in the woods. And what are these clamps there on his shoulders, at his gut? What is written on this new scroll?  Are we falling or flying?

When he feels far from me, this child of choice, I wear this ’round my neck. A charm passed to me from my soulsister, long ago when I was the age he is now. Touch it with one finger there at the hollow of my throat. For safety. For comfort. For joy. Hoping to only connect.

A talisman then, swinging there over my heart.

In this photo post: Favorite things, culled from a vagabond’s backpack while on furlough from Denmark in the States, and posed on a swing which has held three generations. 

Would you like to Unravel? Sign up for Susannah Conway’sphotography and journaling ecourse.

Did you know you could fly?

Yes you, with the middle-aged greys springing out of your ponytail…

You with the quarter-life crisis and the world as your oyster…

You with Junior High staring at you from the business end of a double barrel…

You can soar, if only you will bend your knees and leap into the great unknown.

True, the next day, you may fly in a metal tube for 9hours with your broken ankle in temporary cast, and ice from the airplane galley packed around your leg. But you will know in your core  that for those clear sparkling moments you were Icarus triumphant. And, when you are old, you will remember those glorious seconds aloft with clarity; while the throb in your bones will be but a faint memory, calling to mind not a fall, but a flight.

“In life you will come to a great chasm. Jump.”  -J.Conrad

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Oh my, I am trying so hard to be brave. Here I am with my guitar at the Soulsister’s house on Hartsine Island. (I do so dislike having my picture taken — and now I have to take them of myself!) And here I am in the podcast, chatting and SINGING in front of you! (Be brave!)

What makes you feel afraid? Where are you practicing bravery? Do tell!

 In this post: Reflections of a vagabond in a borrowed guitar at a rented house. Would you like to Unravel? Sign up for Susannah Conway’s photography and journaling ecourse.

There are surfaces in our lives which we pass by every day. The sheen of a coffee cup, the gleam of some stainless steel appliance, the window made a mirror by darkness. We pass them by, unseen and unnoticed. Yet they capture us and throw us back into the world.

If no one sees that reflected bit of us — your nose caught in the shine of the toothbrush holder, your fingers tapping out a rhythm on the guitar, the curve of your hip in the shower knob — does it make a sight? Does it make a sound?

I’ve been struggling this year with knowing that I am enough. Not when I’m fully actualized; not when I’ve achieved Nirvana; not when I’ve been transformed…but now, right now, I am enough. Even in illness. Even in shortcomings. Even in the ever-present, ever-niggling experience of not-knowing. Enough.

In every reflective surface, every unexpected mirror, the world captures my image and throws it back at me.

She chants:  “Be here now.”
She bears witness:  “You ARE here now.”
She testifies: “You, just as you are, are enough.”

Do you promise to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth? I do. Even to my very self.

This is for Susannah Conway’s  Unravelling ecourse.  If this inspires you, please consider taking the course.  In this post: Reflections in a tub fixture with a lavender filter, black & white, the original photo, and colour saturation.

“I think my most important job is to make space for people to be who they are and tell their own stories…My role is to cultivate relationship, cultivate curiosity, [and] create a sense of sacred space.”     -Kelly Bean,  Soultribe Cultivator

How do I love Kelly Bean? Let me count the ways! First, she’s a redhead (big points.) Second he has the totally adorable name. (more brownie points.) But most importantly, Kelly Bean is as gentle as she is wise, with more patience than anyone I know, and has a habit of waiting and listening until the solution arrives. (Unlike some redheads we know. Hi. Me.)

There’s nothing like learning from a pro, and at 20-plus years of nurturing the same Soultribe (it’s a record!) Kelly can really give us insight into how to keep something going through the ups, downs and seasons of life.

This is a long, but excellent interview and features a unique shared-leadership model called Leadership by Triad which I’ve never heard of anyone else using. Plus there’s loads of stuff in here for those of you who are in the process of a church break-up, or who are Leaving Church. And don’t miss the bit where she lays out some of the common pitfalls Soultribes trip into, and how to avoid them. I recommend you print this out and pop it in your bag. You’ll want to underline and highlight this winsome goodness, I promise.

Kelly generously gave us her time to write up this interview, so she could encourage and guide you. In the spirit of our on-going Sacred Commerce experiment, please let me know if you’d like to send Kelly a thank-you gift from your Etsy or other shop. (My email is moi at magpie-girl dot com.)

And now without further ado my Soulsister, Kelly Bean, and the Soultribe at Third Saturdays.

Background: Could you tell us what kind of Soultribe you belong to: What do you call it? How often do you meet? How long have you been together as a group? 

My soultribe is called Third Saturday.We are a community of people following in the way of Jesus. Our gatherings vary in size from 15-30 -which includes 6 kids ranging in ages 1 to 13. We meet twice a month for sure and sometimes more frequently.

I began to host this group over 22 years ago. I remember my daughter (who is now 23 years old) was just beginning to crawl when we first started. I can still see her playing in the center of the circle of friends, although now she is a mother herself. Over time I have become the ‘official’ cultivator of this community (thanks Rachelle for the great title, “cultivator.”) I’d venture to say that most of the current participants have been attending for seven to ten years.
Group Content: What does your typical evening together look like?

Group Content: What does your typical evening together look like?

Our meetings have changed over the years. We originally met for a couple hours on Tuesday nights. After our kids began school we shifted to meeting on Friday nights so the children could continue to come along and be with their friends. We met on Friday nights from 7:00 to well past 11:00 for about 10 years. When both our daughters were in high school we found that giving up a weekend night every week made it hard to participate in their activities and to know their friends. We wanted to be able to attend the Friday night ball games at the school, provide transportation and be available to them. At that point, about six years ago, we shifted to our current rhythm.

Our primary rhythm now is around our meeting on the Third Saturday (or sometimes the second or fourth J) of the month. We meet in my home—with the exception of two periods in this 23 years, when we were building or remodeling homes- during these times other group members “hosted.” We share a meal and engage in the evening’s ritual, relational connection, discussion topic.

We also meet the first Friday of the month for Taize Prayerat a local university. After prayer and silent contemplation we trek to a nearby establishment called Chez Jose where we share Mexican food, margaritas and conversation.

Who decides what you will do together? Who facilitates?

There is room for all voices. I guide the group but the general direction we take is borne out of listening to the group. For a few years we tried an experiment of leadership by Triad. Every month three different people from within the group would set the course for the month. They would plan all that we did for the Third Saturday gathering, even down to the potluck theme.

Together the Triad would determine what they wanted the group to do or what they wanted to bring to the group. Sometimes they would choose a topic that they were all fascinated with and they would bring three perspectives. Sometimes one Triad member might be a talker and the others would be introverts. In this case it might be that one introvert would bring a mix of songs they felt illustrated the theme the talker was unpacking and the other might lead a group discussion or an interactive art project to explore of the topic. A Triad might explore a global issue or a feeling or go deep into a scripture or poem. The past two years it seems we’ve had a lot international travelers in our group and we’ve loved learning from them upon their return.

My role is to cultivate relationship, cultivate curiosity, create a sense of sacred space, guide and direct in a way that helps to bring out all the group has to offer. My incredible husband Ken makes a good pot of coffee and is always glad to get a drum circle going at the end of the evening. (Magpie Girl’s Note: In my house we call this being the “Pastor’s Husband. That’s fun to trot out at church conferences, let me tell ya’!)

People: 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?

I think that Third Saturday is a microcosm of the possibility of pluralism lived out over time. Together as a community, our life has given us occasion to navigate theological conversions and diversions, some divorces, the collapse of our mother church, graduations and adoptions, addictions- our own or our loved ones, economic boom and financial collapse. marriages, births and deaths (not always staged in that order). 

When we started out we were a rather monolithic group of slightly charismatic Evangelicals in our early years of marriage and of raising young children. We all attended the same church and held fairly similar beliefs. Now 20 some years later, although life has taken us on various courses, we faithfully gather to share, worship, study, serve and create together. But now we are now a motley mixture of people with affiliation to United Church of Christ, Episcopalian, Greek Orthodox, Albanian Orthodox, Baptist, Christian Missionary Alliance and Presbyterian congregations.

Some of us have detached from the “institutional” church completely, others have rediscovered faith in artist communities, others embrace doubt. Some are Republicans and others Democrats, some are prochoice and others are prolife. Some hold to Creationism and others are Darwinists. Some doubt the credibility of global warming and others are environmental activists. Some are Universalists and others are staunch Calvinists. Some are black and some are white. Some are grandparents and others are single college students. Some are artists, some are computer programmers, others are health care workers and still others are engineers. Some are homemakers, others are writers, a handyman, salespeople and entrepreneurs, a bike mechanic, an analyst, and masseuse are all in the mix. We all struggle at times and we all have victories. We are a small enough community that there is no anonymity. We are who we are.

Although all these things are true, we don’t generally think of each other in these categorical ways. We are bound together by shared history, by a heart for the poor, by care and respect that transcends “belief”, by many shared meals , by laughter and tears, by the stories we have trusted each other with, by the burdens we have borne together and by the strong thread of Jesus in our lives and in our midst.

As we have grown and changed over the years I recognize we have continually cultivated relational space which makes it possible to share an encounter of commitments. We retain our unique identities and hold our deepest differences even as we participate in dynamic, creative, life-rearranging relationships together.

Coming Together: How long did it take your group to gel? What was that process like?

How did we come together? Well, we mostly met in the same church at various points along the way. A few have come by word of mouth. At this point we are not “officially” an open community; we are not attempting to grow in size or to promote ourselves to that end. If someone has a friend who wants to come along we welcome them. Our more recent regular participants (including our awesome violinist) came to us in this way. 

This answer feels glib but, it seems like it has always worked. And for the handful who have left here and there over the years there has been a sense of a peaceful shift to something new for them. Maybe part of that is due to being flexible and willing to let things go rather than structure them too much. At the same time I do try to keep a plan up my sleeve so if things drag we can shift gears. I trust the spirit in the group and in the process. So something can be a flop and still be just fine. There is always another week!

I think my most important job is to make space for people to be who they are and tell their own stories, to do what I can to ensure that the environment is emotionally safe and supportive, to help people connect with each other and find a way they can belong and to create a relaxed welcoming atmosphere. If people feel safe, accepted, relaxed, connected and welcomed that goes a long way.

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?

 I can think of a several sticky points that have been the downfall of many a community but we have weathered. Here are some of those-

Breakup
We were for many, many years, a community that existed within a church. That church; our “mother church”, went through a rough time and eventually disbanded. My husband and I left the church before it disbanded. At that point the community was comprised of people who left in a great deal of pain (like us) people who still thought it could work out and were loyal to the leaders who remained, and people who didn’t identify with any church. It was a tender time and everyone had deep feelings. We resolved to make space for each other to be wherever we needed to be and to trust each other in that. We participated in silent shared rituals for grief together (sitting Shiva together, floating prayer candles, writing our feelings as prayers) to acknowledge that everything was not well and that we could all grieve even if we were grieving completely opposite things.

I was very proud of how the community navigated that time. When the church did eventually shut down there was room for everyone to remain- and everyone chose to.

 Big Change
When we shifted to meeting twice a month (and only once a month in our home) this was a rough spot. Some people felt they would lose their community, others felt like we shouldn’t make such a change. Although some were fine with the decision it did raise strong doubt and dissension with others. In hind sight there may have been a better way to lead the group into the change, but it had become increasingly clear to us that we were sacrificing the best interest of our family and must make a change. After the announcement I met with concerned group members one on one and listened to their concerns and feelings. I acknowledged that I had moved swiftly without preparing the group for such a big change. Good listening and owning your own stuff goes a long way. Gradual and strategic introduction of the idea would have been a good idea too. But, by the time we reached the point that change was needed, it was past time to make the move. I did learn some things about leading people along gradually.

 Myopic 
A few years back I got to feeling that as a group, we had become much too self focused and ingrown. I led us through a process of group discernment to determine together as a community what our strengths were, what brought us together and kept us together, what we imagined and wanted for the future (and what we didn’t want) and where we could learn and grow.

This process led to a focus on global issues and local community engagement. The focus led us to do collaborative art projects to raise money for communities in Africa. It led us to serve each other in more practical ways and to think beyond the needs of the group. I was impressed by the initiative that the community took to make this shift.

Take-Away: 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?

Some of the many benefits are shared meals (we love good food and beverage!), encouragement for the journey of life and faith, shared history, care for each other, practical support for day to day life and through hard times, authentic relationships, new ideas and study, a sense of belonging, shared ritual, a desire to grow as a person, a desire to be known, fun, a community that welcomes kids.

The Real and the Ideal: What did you think your group would be like? How did it actually turn out? What’s that like for you?

 Since Third Saturday has simply become what it is over the years and we all have changed in many ways along the way it feels tough to answer that question.

I sometimes look at Soultribes that are just launching. These generally come together around fairly clear mutually held theologies, beliefs and philosophical or political values- these are common and not bad reasons for  people to form groups. I look at these and at times I think “Ah that looks less stressful…no debates about global warming vs global warming hoaxes that make me cringe, no strongly held difference about abortion rights to navigate, no stress when your favorite political candidate comes up in conversation.”

But then I look at the way that we respect and learn from each other, the way we can share life and still make space for the “other” right in our midst, I remember the love that holds us, and I am reminded that in a world split by difference, this is a hopeful story.

When we started out we were a Bible study and prayer group, and that was okay for that time. Over time we have been a spiritual formation group, an emotional support group, a topical study group. In more recent years we are a group of people intent on always learning and growing, urging one another on to love and to good deeds, caring for the world and our local communities together and caring for each other through thick and thin. And that is more than enough.

Advice Girl: What would you have done differently in the early days of your Soultribe?

I have loved all stages of the evolution of Third Saturday. When I look back the one thing I would like to have done differently is to have relaxed about cleaning my house. Getting ready for a large group of people to gather in your home every week can be stressful if you aren’t particularly a good housekeeper (but wish you were!). When my kids were growing up I could be crabby and uptight the day we were getting the house ready. Thank goodness the kids loved the gatherings as much as the adults did or they would have resented that high pressure preparation more than they do. Still, it would have been fine to have my house look a little more lived in when people arrived and would have been more fun to prepare without pushing so hard at the last minute to pull it all together. Frankly this is good advice to all parents of young children when it comes to house cleaning- whether a Soultribe is coming over or not. Relax and enjoy! A little mess (or even a big one) never really hurt anyone. And in hindsight, being bitchy to get a house clean isn’t worth it.

What  other tidbits would you like to add to our giant pool of wisdom?

• Laughter is good.
• Listening is essential.
• Let the seasons of your life inform your direction. Listen to your life. My own spiritual journey and the unique needs of our family have shaped the direction for the community over the years. As I look back and see this come clear I am grateful.

Kelly Bean and a slew of her wonder women are up next at Christianity21, October 9-11 in Minneapolis. Loosely based on the TED Talks model, 21 speakers will hit 21 topics in 21 minutes each. It’s the hottest Christian conference I’ve seen in years — plus, all the women are speakers but it’s not a “women’s conference.” In the world of the church my friends, that is a small miracle. To find out how to meet the miracle workers, click here. Pay special attention to Nadia, Seth, Makeesha, and our grand dame, Ms. Phyllis. They will rock your socks!

Soultribes is an on-going series helping creative souls build a place to call home. Demonstrate your commitment to forming your tribe by adding this badge to your website, and follow us on Twitter to read the next edition. “There ain’t no where to go but together!”

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I am young. Young enough to hold my father’s hand. The church is a little dim, the wood of the pews being so dark, the carpet such a deep red. Our pastor—part-grandfather, part-judge— is on the dais, his robes resplendently white, the gold of his stole glinting. He moves like an alchemist at the altar using, words, and rites, and gestures to turn ordinary things into talismans.

There is an electric organ, badly played, and an upright piano. We sing choruses before the liturgy, simple songs newly written by hippies with guitars picks. My father loves these simple songs, just a few phrase on repeat until they sink into your soul. He raises his hands to the sky, a stand out amongst the stiffness.

“Jesus, I just want to Thank You.
Jesus, I just want to Thay-ank You.
Jesus, I just want to Thank You.
Thank you for being so good.”

We unhinge our jaws. We loose our tongues. We the ordinary people of the everyday – we take on the task of angels. We sing. 

Now comes the hymns, both awkward and resplendent with age. An elderly woman with a thin, high voice warbles enthusiastically behind me. We are staid people, we Lutherans, and no inclined to showmanship. But some hymns are robust: 

“Holy, holy, holy!  All the saints adore thee,
casting down their golden crowns around the glassy sea;
cherubim and seraphim falling down before thee,
which wert, and art, and evermore shalt be.”

My mother’s hands rest on the hymnal.  Her lacquered nails are bright against the brown nougahyde cover. They are long and cool and smooth. I love to stroke them when there is no singing and the service lingers on. I do not care for the spoken words: long scripture passage read aloud, the drone of the sermon. But the songs, the psalms, the hymnody-these charm me. I am utterly in their thrall. Spellbound. The Latin is like an incantation. We make our confession in a magic tongue:

 ”Kyrie, Kyrie Eleison, Eleison…”

Finally, it is time to chant my favorite part of the liturgy, and we turn to the Nunc Dimittis, Simeon’s Song.

“Lord lettest now Thy servant depart in peace, according to Thy Word.
For mine eyes have seen Thy Salvation, which Thou hast prepared before
the face of all people.
A Light to lighten the gentiles, and the glory of Thy people Israel.
We praise Thee. We bless Thee. We worship Thee.
We glorify Thee. We give thanks to Thee for Thy great glory.
Amen.”

Years later, when decades of rock and roll have filled my ears and the chants of my childhood have long been set aside, a tragedy comes to our door. Our first child is still born, a little boy a not much longer than my husband’s hand, which holds him on my chest. The diagnosis came before the birth. No abdominal wall. No chest wall. A spine bent and misshapen. We have had time to prepare, and my heart rushes back to those long Sundays in the dim red womb of the chapel. My tongue finds the old songs. We baptize our son in the way of my childhood, the long-established liturgy our guide in this unknown and frightening terrain. Simeon, we name him. Once more we sing the song… 

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My thanks to Jamie Ridler of Starshyne Productions for submitting “How has music influenced you?” as an Ask Magpie question.

Now it’s your turn! How has music influenced you over your lifetime? Tell us in the comments, or add the link to your post.

Ask Magpie is featured (some) Wednesdays and depends on your inquiring mind. “Ask me a question, I’ll tell you no lies!” Thanks for being here.

We all have moments when we feel a bit too buffeted about by the storms of life, when our souls get a little bruised. In those moments it is good to have a pool of guidance and inspiration to dip into.

A few years ago one of my favorite good-souls, Bob Carlton, invited people to gather their best posts-of-the-year together and post them all up over at his blog, The Corner. Every year since, I have committed to this practice, finding the things that have fed me the most from deep within my internal sense of authority and wisdom. Gathering them up in a single place gives me one-stop shopping on those days when my soul is running on empty. It is a fixed reference point when I feel lost in the world.

So here are the posts from 2008 that will carry me through 2009. What your your top nine? Put a linke to your round up in the comments below. I’m sure we’d all love to visit.

heart,

rachelle

A Shrine for Hard Feelings

How to Shut Up Your Gremlins

Choosing the Beast

A Story About A Love (by Cate, age 8)

Eighteen

The Care and Keeping of Sacred Stories

Solstice, Stonehenge, Solitude

Why I’m Not Teaching My Kids Abstinence Only

Fairy, Mallard, Lilly, Tree: A Christening

1. It’s okay to nap.
2. I can quiet down my negative voices.
3. Beauty is a worthy value.
4. You can participate in your own unique and powerful life.
5. Nothing is more terrifying, and more worth it, then choosing love.
6. You will never regret the tradition of having a morning cuddle with your children.
7. I am reslient as hell.
8. If you are called into the wilderness, you can not avoid it, even if you hear wolves.

Jen says, I can be honest about what I know now. And what I know now is that is need my soulsisters –or mabye my soulsibilings. I need them around me all the time, sending me messages of hope and speaking affirmation in my ears. I feel sheepish about it — this constant need for feedback and assistance and the exchange of ideas. But it’s okay to do things and get support at the same time, rights? As Jena says, is it functional? Because if it is, then why fight it?

It is functional for me, this communal way of life, the ebb and flow, the give and take. Even in the midst of my love of the solitary, I also need this chorus of voices. So I’m trying to listen to my own internal voice of authority and no matter what the experts say about rugged individualism, I’m recognizing that I need a hand to hold.

This month when Suzie asked The Universe what she had in store for me, she pulled the Nine of Cups not once, but twice. Two wishes for me! For the longest time I couldn’t decide what to wish for. I knew one wish had to be “Body”– for my health, for my pain, for the way I see my physical self. But the other one remained elusive. I got stuck in that loop of endless decision-making to which I am so prone. What if I made the wrong choice? What if I spoke the wrong word into being, then regreted wasting my wish?

I believe, even on my most doubtful days, that nothing is ever wasted. Or at least, I try to believe. (“Lord, I believe, help my unbelief.”) So whatever wish I make must be right, right?. And like Jaime says, if you move towards something and you don’t feel like backpeddling as fast as you can, move closer. So this is the word that has settled into my tongue, and I speak it into exisitence. “Tribe.”

Who do you need in your tribe? Truth tellers? Cultivators? Dreamers? Cuddlers? Champions? Warriors? Withmates? All of the above? Do tell…

Remember, O most loving Virgin Mary
that it is a thing unheard of
that anyone ever had recourse to your
protection, implored your help,
or sought your intercession,
and was left forsaken.

Filled therefore with confidence in your
goodness, I fly to you
O mother, Virgin of Virgins to you I come,
before you I stand, a sorrowful sinner.
Despise me not my poor words
O Mother of God
But graciously hear and grant my prayers.

I am on a journey to Mary. I do not yet understand her; her appeal to so many, or the complexity of her character. At times I feel frustrated that she has become a stand-in for the feminine expression of God, a symbol of the feminine Divine, when she is not in fact a deity. But at other times her creative force seems so strong that I can understand the impulse to mold her into the void that our patriarchal God leaves behind.

In Sienna the shrine to the Blessed Virgin Mary is immense. It is revered in the utmost, and nearby at a respectful distance the walls are hung thick with items that denote both thanksgiving and petition: baby booties on satin strings; motorcycle helmets of those who have survived the crash; war medals and memorials. The people pray, “Remember…that is a thing unheard of… that anyone had ever implored you for help…and was left forsaken.” What would it be like to have someone like that? To rest that assured that help was on its way?

In Sweden there are the remains of a most ancient chapel dedicated to the Blessed Virgin Mary. I think it is telling that it has been left to decay, reduced now to a mound of fern covered rock. The powers that be may have decided that this chapel did not need to be protected, did not need to continue to stand. But the placard there will not let me go. It reads simply:

“The people loved Mary because she knew their needs.”

“When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary calls to me….” She is calling, there in the distance. I hear her like a whisper that resides in the curve of my ear. And I wonder as a I wander, what will she say as our journey goes on?

Pienza greets us with a cheery patch of grass on which to have lunch. The elders are meeting here and the old men gabble, laughing as one when a pinecone drops from the trees, thumping Paul squarely on the head. We eat our typical Tuscan picnic fare, rounding things out with ricciarelli—sweet almond cookies which dust our fingers in confectionary sugar.

We have no agenda here. No cathedral to visit or museum to haunt. We want only to wander, to follow twisting cobbled streets under the clotheslines hung with shirts and slips, past the window boxes red with geraniums. We think, perhaps we might tour the small palazzo, or buy the local pecorino cheese and eat it warm with honey. Instead, we stumble upon a small chapel. It seems surprisingly spacious beyond the heavy doors; its four walls unornamented save for some crumbling frescoes, the space inside wide and welcoming. The detailed Nativity just inside the doors and the pale broken images of men in brown robes quickly identify this as a Franciscan cappella, my favorite among the old orders. We walk with echoing steps down the long central aisle as we are drawn to the altar at the head of the room. It is utterly unlike any we have seen – a huge slab of unfinished marble lying on its side, for all the world evoking the damaged block from which Michelangelo freed David. Paul and I cannot stop admiring it and of course I, being ever tactile, must lay my hand upon it. The front is rough-hewn with markings I cannot understand, reaching back deep into some hidden past. The back, the side that would face the officiating priest, is covered with images from Old and New Testament tales. Custom says the top must be draped with a cloth in the liturgical colors of the season—although no clearly no standard fare from a mail order catalog would fit this undulating stone. So someone has made one of green and gold, sculpted and scalloped to fit the curve of the gentle polished top of the stone. I am in love. I am deeply in love. Though I wander through the rest of the building—to the beautiful sun-lit Marian chapel with its painted ceiling of blue and gold; past the flat, metal modern sculptures on the walls and the unique candelabra—it is back to the altar I repeatedly come. I pass it round and round, slide my palm over its finished top, sink my fingers into the crevices on its rough sides. It is intended to be a place of adoration, so I adore.

Paul is deeply drawn to the lectern to one side of the altar. It is relatively new, modern in its styling. It reminds us both thinks of our friend Amber, a metalworker and sculptor. We know she would love it. We have forgotten our tripod, and no flash is allowed, so Paul stacks coins on the edge of a pew-back in order to make a sort of camera stand and snaps photos with a slow-closing shutter. The lectern harkens back to Francis’ love of nature and is made in the shape of a tree, its branches entwined and only partially in leaf, so the congregation would be able to see the Bible, the reader, the priest standing behind. I suddenly realize that this is not typical of a Roman Catholic Church. Where is the dramatic raised pulpit elevating the priest above the congregants? Usually it is large and obvious, separating the priest from the people, lifting him up under an ornate dome, rimmed in intricate carvings or fringed in velvet. It is gone. No, not gone—moved—hauled down the length of the transcript to the back of the church and chained to the wall.

I am shocked. I am stunned. Who is the priest here? Who is this innovative renegade? Surely he must be something out of Sue Monk Kidd novel—some romantic character doomed to run afoul of the authorities and into the arms of a clever nun or a pretty congregant with a curious mind. And then I am off and running, writing a sketch in my head of a postmodern misfit in the Catholic milieu. A doomed hero who realizes you have to use art to preach, who knows his people will intuit truth through art. Here is he in my mind’s eye with his open-weave lectern communicating transparency. Here he is, low and close to the community demonstrating equity. Here he is serving the Eucharist from behind an ancient stone, demonstrating a continuous connection stretching from our past to our present and into our future.

Most assuredly, I am in love.

Eden and I sit in front of the stone altar on the dark polished pews. We sing The Breastplate of St. Patrick, the surpassingly good acoustics carrying our voices and making them better than they truly are. We choose the verse Francis would most love:

I bind unto myself today
The virtues of the starlit heaven,
The glorious sun’s life giving ray,
The whiteness of the moon at even,
The flashing of the lightning free,
The whirling wind’s tempestuous shocks,
The stable earth, the deep salt sea
Around the old eternal rocks…

The crowds of tourists come in and out of the chapel doors, glancing just a moment at the plain interior before moving on in search of bigger things. Eden and I stay in the echoes. I cannot help but think, “Beware all ye who enter here. You just might find what you are looking for.”

Thank you so much for reading the shitty first drafts for Edge Dwellers (intro: chap one) and for making your commments. I was able to gather up my readership status to day, and to send that info plus your comments and proof-read drafts to the publisher who made the original query. Hopefully things will progress in that official direction. If not, fear not, the writing will continue and you’ll either get it piece meal on the blog or in some self-published form.

Thank you for all of your comments, encouragement, and suggestions. I have finally been able to write a few of you back in the comments on the orginal posts, and have emailed a few of you as well. I’m hoping I can kick the hienous insomnia (evil fiend!) so I can write to you more promptly in the future. Much love to you all.

Yours on the journey,

Rachelle

The Itch at the Top of your Nose
Tell-tale signs that you have put on a new set of lenses

Sometime in my thirties, just after getting my first gig as an ordained minister in an evangelical church, something about how I was living my religious life started to feel not quite right.

The first itchy little problem was that I was having an increasingly hard time hiding the fact that I disliked Bible study. The truth of the matter was I’d never been one for ‘devotions.’ I was forever setting my good intentions towards daily readings, only to find that my Bible ended up on the shelf covered in dust. In seminary I took as few Bible courses as possible, and although I loved studying Hebrew, I never did develop a heart for that Biblical studies mainstream, exegesis. I dreaded any small group session that involved Bible study, text-based sermons made me nuts, and any staff devotional I had to sign up for was mercifully brief.

By this time I had taken on a preaching roll in the church, and I was good at it. True, my sermons were more stories that scripture, but the words rolled off my tongue and I was getting animated responses from the congregation. But the truth was I was tired of sermons. Suddenly I, the person who could take non-stop notes for three solid hours in a graduate school seminar, could not sit still through a simple Sunday morning message. (And I certainly didn’t remember much of what was said once I was outside the church doors.) I felt as though I had developed some sort of adult-onset ADD. I just could not absorb a twenty minute sermon, much less for the hour-long pulpit sessions which were in vogue at my church.

Then, much to my dismay, the standard versions of prayer started not working so well. The “prayers and praise” format which had carried me most of the way through college was making my skin crawl, and I was practically developing an allergic reaction to meeting with a “prayer partner” or spending an hour praying for people in a small group. The long prayer session that were popular in my charismatic church began to feel like a laundry list of worries and demands, and in our intense healing prayer circles I felt twitchy and discouraged. The church staff I was on was quite large at the time, and we had called in a specialist to come and do some communication training with us. He asked us to pray prior to the meeting, something that had been standard practice for us in the past. But when ten minutes went by with only one or two moments of spoken prayer, the trainer called the prayer session to a close. He was quite disturbed by what he perceived to be our lack of participation, and when the younger pastors in the group tried to explain that we had become more accustomed to silent prayer and meditative listening in recent years, the trainer chastised us for not doing “real prayer” more often.

All of this was a little concerning, but I had one ace in the hole that was preventing me from having a full-blown spiritual crisis: “Worship”. I still adored the worship activities at church. We had great musical worship sets. Man could our church bands play! We had original songs that were seriously hip, adaptations of Fat Boy Slim mixes that rocked the joint, and ballads so plaintive they could bring you to tears.

Not only did we have great music, but the artists were really coming into their stride in our congregation and the place was filled with beauty. Most months there was something fabulous and inspiring in the Sunday morning services: a series of paintings on walls and easels; interactive sculptures for various sermon series; and for Lent and Advent whole services created completely of visuals and music.

I was thrilled. I should have been thrilled. I was trying to be thrilled.

But the truth of the matter was, the worship sets? I’d been working myself into them for quite a while, trying to convince myself that they were ‘working’ for me as a connection to God. In truth, they were feeling a little forced and repetitive. Moreover, after the high of jumping up and down with 200 people wore off, I was left with just me walking out the doors and into the rest of my life. There was little connection between the ecstasy of Sunday morning rock and everyday reality of Monday morning living.

And the art? I adored the art. But it turned out to be a secret agent. The art was my undoing.

During my second year on staff one of the artists, Stephen Wood, made an enormous sculptural installation for Advent. It was Mother Mary, her figure formed of bent bamboo and draped in gauzy cloth. Her arms were arched up and outward like a dancer and her belly glowed with an internal light. Each Sunday, while the worship band played, while people clapped and sang and raised their hands, while the senior pastor gave us good and wise words in a sermon–I sat at the feet of Mary. There was a little half-wall that curved around one side of the sculpture, and if I leaned against it I could sit behind Mary’s draping sleeve. Crouched there, something solid at my back and something beautiful at my side, I could be present to the congregation I was serving, but at the same time feel protected from a system of faith practices I no longer understood. I could soak in the reality of what I really needed, while still being tethered to what was familiar but no longer functional.

It was in this small Marian way station that I finally acknowledged that everything I’d grown up with as a Christian had stopped working – probably hadn’t been working for a long time. I’d been talking myself into so many things: convincing myself that prayer was a discipline; that the Bible had to be helpful somehow; that God needed me to express my devotion to him through lots and lots of emotive songs; and that I needed to be lectured at for at least 30 minutes a week or I’d backslide my way into hell. But as I gave each of those things up, then after a bit of a delay realized that I’d given them up, a stunning reality came rushing in. It didn’t really matter. I still loved Jesus. I still lived as morally or immorally as I had before. I still felt randomly connected or disconnected from God on any given day or any given hour.

In spite of the art, liturgy, and ritual, church still wasn’t helping me. It wasn’t transformative. I didn’t help me be a more Jesus-like person. Rather than letting me be a minister and servant to the world around me, the tasks of running the Sunday morning show just kept me trapped in the church. I began to see the church as a castle, holding me inside with the Ruler, but isolated from the rest of the population outside. The amount of time it demanded of me, and the amount of energy I spent feeling badly that I wasn’t doing Bible study, prayer, or worship left me unable to be present to the people outside the walls of the church – unable to be part of the broad range of God’s kingdom.

There, sitting behind Mary, something had happened. My nose had started to itch. When I reached up to scratch it, there at the top right between my eyes, I found that I had a pair of new glasses fairly permanently affixed to my face. I started to think of it as wearing a pair of very funky cat’s eyes glasses – orange maybe—a style linked to the past, but hip enough for the future. Everything looked different now, through those funky lenses.

Perhaps this is happening to you. Perhaps after a life time of devotion you are waking up on Sunday mornings and feeling sick at heart. Perhaps you are starting to feel angry that what you say you believe and the way your life in “the world” really works are not in alignment. I’m here to tell you: Don’t be Afraid.

What you are experiencing is not a dark night of the soul. It’s not a crisis of faith or a season of doubt. What you are experiencing is a shift away from one kind of Christian faith practice to another. In technical terms you are moving away from traditional Christianity – probably evangelical Christianity, but possibly some form of mainstream Christianity—and into what is referred to as “postmodern” or “emergent Christianity.” Now, we aren’t going to get into what all those things mean yet. That’s for the next chapter. For now let’s look at a list of symptoms.

Symptoms

• Former religious practices (sermons, prayer, Bible study, small groups, worship sets) are no longer meaningful to you.
• You are beginning to suspect that Christianity may not have cornered the market on Truth.
• Your intellectual life and your spiritual life no longer seem to be able to play nice together.
• You are increasingly interested in spending time outside the four walls of the church.
• Many non-Christians seem suspiciously Christ-like to you.
• If you are a woman, you may have begun longing for a God that looks like you.
• You have started asking questions that worry your family, friends, and pastor.
• You have begun to suspect that you might have to give up your faith in order live with integrity.

Don’t worry my friend. This discomfort you are feeling, this disconnect, is just a portal you step through into being what Brian McLaren calls A New Kind of Christian. You’ve just put on a new pair of glasses, and that’s a good thing. They are going to help you see things more clearly, and with that clearer vision you are going to be able to craft a new version of your faith that is going to work for you. It’s going to be a true reflection of what you believe and how you intuitively want to live. It’s going to bring integrity back into your life, and allow you to honor what you truly value about God, Jesus, and the Christian life. A new kind of faith is growing– is emerging out of your soul. You are forming a new kind of spirituality:

• A spirituality which finds its inspiration in ancient teachers and newly published writers.
• A spirituality which spins out of fresh translations of the Bible.
• A spirituality which will be messier and more open-ended, but ultimately more genuine to you and truer to the deepest parts of your soul.

Joseph Campbell, the godfather of comparative religion, tells us a story in his videography The Hero with a Thousand Faces. In these interviews he talks about the epic hero’s journey which is captured in the myths and traditions of every culture and every faith. According to Campbell, we are all on a hero’s journey—intentionally or because of life’s unexpected circumstances. He tells us that each of us will come to what appears to be a great impasse. For Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz it is the field of poisoned poppies near her journey’s end. For Luke Sykwalker it is the great literal and metaphorical divide between him and his unknown father, Darth Vadar. For Indiana Jones it is literally a deep chasm between himself and the Holy Grail. Campbell says “On your journey, you will come to a great chasm. Jump.”

Are you ready? Give your cat’s eyes glasses a rub and make sure they’re nice and clean. Can you see the chasm? Go ahead. Jump.

Introduction: Sea Change

There’s was a boy, a very strange enchanted boy
They say he traveled very far, very far
Over land and sea
And then one day, one fateful day he came my way
And though we talked of many things, fools and kings,
This he said to me:

The greatest thing, you’ll ever learn
Is just to love
And be loved in return.

Nature Boy
Nat King Cole

Once there was a girl. This girl was a good little girl. She was a Christian girl. It’s true that she was a bit of a mutt, having been raised in a Lutheran church and sent to a private school run by the Pentecostals. The latter were rumored to be found swinging from the rafters. In proper religious circles this was just shy of snakes handling, but still, she made the cut. She had, after all, prayed the prayer and studied the catechism, filled her memory verse chart with shiny silver stars, and taken first communion. She got up at 6am to be a teenage prayer warrior and responded to altar calls in the school gym (for what reason she was never quite sure.) She even sang in the choir.

After a while this girl grew up. She went to more private Christian schools and got letters after her name. She met people who thought that the Holy Spirit was still afoot, and she learned about healing and prophecy and things that, frankly, acted a lot like magic and miracle. She met a wizened old man who everyone called a guru, but who called himself “Eugene.” When the girl talked to Eugene, his faced curved upwards into swoops because he smiled at the questions that only made other people look worried. He told the girl lots of stories, this Eugene, and some of them the girl seemed to remember like a mist in her memory. She thought she might have heard them once a long time ago. Only the stories were more interesting when Eugene told them. (When Eugene told them it was they were full of trolls and fairies, she was sure of it. There! Behind the sackcloth and ashes!). The felt she might be a part of these stories, and that maybe that everybody got to play, that things weren’t quite as scary as they were meant to be–or maybe they were more so–but the ending was even better than she had first understood, so the scariness of being in the story was worth it.

Eventually, the girl became mostly grown up. She got herself a job and house and a husband. She even graduated from two cats to two kids. Being the good girl that she was she worked for the poor, and volunteered to teach Sunday school, and spent all her time serving and serving and serving some more. (For which she got many kudos…and many requests for still more service.) She was doing all the things she was meant to do, dotting all her “i’s” and crossing all her “t’s.”. The rules in the church involved never being quite good enough, and always striving to be better. The girl wasn’t sure what to do about that, because sometimes she felt just fine, and everyone told her that couldn’t be right. So she tried to follow the rules and she worked on being holy. But something kept worrying at her, like a burr in her socks. Nothing fit quite right– everything was too big or too small. She could never nibble on just the right amount of Alice’s cookie, or she was always gulping down too much of the liquid from the curious little jar. She kept trying to find the Christian “perfect,” to be buttoned up properly and know all the right things to say. Finally, she realized that she could never truly accomplish that elusive goal. The girl decided the next best thing was to go on an adventure. So she ate enough of the cookie to crawl through the little door in the rabbit hole, and that made everything Far More Interesting.

You see the girl had found that she wanted to do what she was created to do instead of what she was supposed to do. (It was a fine line sometimes, quite hard to decipher.) So the girl forged ahead into the territory below the rabbit hole. She got ordained, which was against the rules. Then she took her ordination and she walked away from her church, which wasn’t so much against the rules as it was just plain foolhardy. You see, she had loved her church very much, but things had stopped making sense. Her soul was getting anemic. She had to find her way back to the story with trolls and fairies.

I am of course the girl-grown-to-woman. I was the good Christian girl who earned her pedigree via degrees and discernment groups and ordination processes. I am the one who’s career path went social work-homeless ministry-associate pastor. I am the one who read Brian McLaren’s The Story we Find Ourselves In, said “ah ha!” and then left her church. And I am now, among other things, the one who is ripe with ritual, eager to eat with the heathens, and full of priestessy things.

These are my stories. Well, my stories and all the places my stories intersect with many other wonderful stories, many of them bigger than my own. Hidden amongst them there are hypothetical trolls and fairies–wonders unaware. You might not see them at first, but they are there hiding in the spaces between the words.

I don’t know yet, what stories I will pick or which will come to live in this volume. But it is my fervent desire not to write anything here that is not true. Too often in the past I have cooled my words so as not to produce sparks, or hidden my passions under language I thought would go over better in the church-y milieu. But hiding what I really believe in the hope of avoiding an argument left me feeling displaced. My pledge then, to my own heart and to you dear reader, is to be as transparent as possible. My soul says, “Write true things.” And I reply with a phrase from the liturgy of my childhood, “Yes, with the help of God.”

By true things I do not mean things which are purely factual. I am not much one for facts, living so often as I do in the realm of memory, which is faulty; or in the landscape of spirit, which is numinous as best. Quantitative methods do not do much for us here, in the realm of the soul. What I do feel quite fondly towards are what Sabrina Ward Harrison calls “the true and the questions” – those things which are true for me, those which are true for you, and all the bit in between that lead us to wonder. I promise to try to stay there, in that world where questions are Queen.

In a world ripe with “I wonder,” there are a great many things of which I am unsure. If the church can be repaired. If theology can or should be systematic. If “Christian” will ever be a name I can wear without cringing. But this I believe:

The Light is never extinguished.
Jesus loves those on the fringes.
The Muse, she is a foot.

It doesn’t matter if you are unsure precisely what these things mean. It’s okay to be in soft focus around the edges of things. But if any of these ring true to you – if some small wave of recognition surges there behind your breast bone, or catches a bit in your throat, then you are in the right place now. We are meant to be here together—you, I, and the great Divine. And the stories we tell here should be about those things: Jesus, edge dwellers, illumination, inspiration, and the lost bits of the Divine. These are the stories that right now, in this season, will guide us to fertile ground.

Yes, this book is full of stories: things I’ve loved and that have given love to me; places on the journey that have swelled ripe and full of life. All the tales of lost and found that helped me on the way. You might be on the way too. You might find directions for the trip you’ve set out on. You might reconnect with the God you once knew, or find the God you’d never known. Something might ring with you, and you might pack it in your overnight bag. Or you might swallow the whole thing, hook line and sinker. Truthfully, I don’t really know. But I am sure, somewhere in these tales, magic happens – or maybe its miracle – and I think you might want that too.

When explorers used to set sail into the New World, they would take the old maps with them, and draw new ones along the way – making notations, filing in the blank spots. On the edges, where they did not know what lay beyond, they would scrawl “Here There Be Monsters.” You are on the edge of a map, looking across an uncharted sea. But I am here to tell you, there are no monsters here, but instead companions. We may be few in number, but numbers are slippery things and of little import in the end. I am sure there are enough of us here for good company. Set sail with us. Come along.

Leonie asks: What do you most want to celebrate about yourself?

Since childhood I’ve carried this self definition of being ‘the fearful one.’ I’m actively working on shedding that right now. My approach to the challenge? Embrace whimsy.

On a Christmas episode the TV show Bones a tactiturn character–I think she’s a district attorney– cooks up this crazy bargain with the two main characters. It’s a really goofy request and they are confused. She just looks at them and deadpans, >“I have a puckish side which cannot be denied.” That’s my new mantra.

P.s. That particular epsiode has one of my all time favorite TV lines. Booth says to Bones: “Thieves and murderers get Christmas too Bones. In fact, I’m pretty sure that’s what it’s all about.”

Denise asks: Where do you see yourself at 65? Where will you be, physically and spiritually?

I’m so frail right now physically that this is a very scary question. I hope I’ll be healthy. I hope the chronic pain won’t overly shorten my life span. I hope I’ll be mobile and traveling and taking my grandkids camping.

Spiritually, I would love to be a little like Phyllis Tickle. That woman is amazing: wise, articulate, authoratative, gentle, confident – she’s inspiring a whole new generation while her adorable husband sleeps in the front row. I love it!

Susan asks: My question: as you describe it, one decade of your marriage has seen babies, post-partum depression, migraines, major spiritual shifts and now an international move – how have you seen each other shift and accommodate all this? What has sustained your relationship?

And don’t forget a stillbirth. We’ve kind of been through the ringer, huh?

Okay, I’m gonna embrace my puckish side here and come clean with something: I really do not pay that much attention to my marriage. Paul is a very devoted husband and in the words of Jen Lemen “He worships you like a goddess.” This, my friends, goes a long way.

Paul often says that my roll in his life is to keep him “from living a boring life.” I’m very good at that, and thankfully that feeds him. We naturally talk quite a bit. We are both pretty intentional about the kind of life we want to build together and how we are going about doing that. We evaluate things sometimes: are we traveling enough? where do we want to be in the next 5 years? etc. But it’s always is a sort of haphazard way. We do not have marriage summits. We do not go on retreat.

We’re content with parallel play (Paul on his keyboard, me on mine, showing each other stuff on youtube from time to time.) But we are not the kind of couple that’s going to go to a marriage retreats or take a couples workshop. We don’t describe each other as ‘being in love with my very best friend ever kissykissyfacelalala.” In fact, we are sometimes tempted to throw things at people who do self-describe like that. (We aren’t really all that nice. People get confused and think we are, but I don’t think we are. We are kind of John Stewart-y.)

The hard times—the death of our first son, my illness, Eden being so highly sensitive, faith crises, —these are kind of romantic to us and really bring out the best in us. I think we bond more over these challenges than over the rainbows and butterflies.

Paul’s one request is that I be more attentive about what happens to him on my radar when new passions come into my life. The first flush of new obsessions—newborns, writing, housemates, church planting, artistic projects, teenage adoptees—these tend to knock him off my plate. I’ve become more aware of that over the years and try to adjust my focus on him a little when I feel the energy of a new passion coming on.

Paul has a good sense of humor. We both have our own separate adult selves/lives. We respect each other’s life visions – that’s sustains us a lot.

Amy asks: In the last 9 years, what experience has been the most frightening? The most enlightening? The most exciting?

Most frightening: being in the ER with violent migraines.
Most Enlightening: stepping outside the walls of the church
Most Exciting: living communally in the Densmore House with our family of choice (our nuclear family plus Sharon, Rebecca, and Souren)

Dawn-the-punk asks: Why is the sky blue?

I’m not sure but whoever writes the best 100 word or less fairy tale about this will get one of my altered postcards. Email me the tales: moi at magpie-girl dot com.

More Q’s with their A’s still to come….

Florencia asks: are you a priestess or have I been reading too distractedly?

I’ve been trying on the term ‘priestess’ for the last few years. I think it looks good on me!

In official terms, I do have a degree in theology; and I have been ordained. (Although I’ve allowed that to lapse since moving to Europe.) I served as an ordained minister at a church and as the abbess at a neo-monastic community. I don’t have an official title now, but I enjoy offering people spiritual direction on line, and I write regularly about spirituality. I like the term ‘priestess’ because priests, ideally, usher people into a place of transcendence and beauty—which is something I try to do with my writing and my practices. I chose to use the feminine version of the word ‘priest’ because it helps me embrace my quest for uncovering the feminine face of God –the Feminine Divine—which I believe has been buried by the patriarchal models which are predominate in religious institutions.

Josh asks: Compare ten years ago to now, what would you say are the major beliefs that have changed and how has that change changed you?

At 30 I was a happy little evangelical minister gleeful to be accepted into the big-boys club of church ministry. I was very concerned with making sure people were developing an ‘orthodox’ faith, and the myth of personal holiness (i.e. being good) was very important to me. Art was hovering patiently at my door, waiting for me to be ready for our date, and ideas about a new kind of leadership were knocking around my head, but all of that was in embryonic form.

Since then I have completely let go of evangelical doctrine. I don’t believe Christianity is the only way to God. I don’t believe in hell. I still love the transformational theology – that is, I think we can all continue to become more in-the-image-of-God by transforming more deeply into our truest selves—but moral ‘rightness’ and acquiescence to some religious standard (i.e. personal holiness) is no longer a tantamount for me.

How has this shift changed me? My primary language is no longer one of debate and critique, but one of dialogue and curiosity. I’m considerably less uptight and worried. Fear does not dominate my life as it once did. I can see truth in a lot more places now. I’m now live in a place of generosity and abundance, and not in a metaphysical land of judgement and lack. I have a less secure sense of place, and I sometimes miss the way having a clearly delineated religion provides security. But overall, my life has more beauty, ease, and compassion than it once did.

Elaine asks: If you could live one day of your life as another being (animal, vegetable or mineral but it must be non-human), what would you be and why?

I’d probably be a tree. I’m really into the spirit of trees. There was a fig tree near my house in Seattle that I called Mother Fig. I used to stop sometime on my pre-dawn walks and put my hand on her trunk and say encouraging things to her. (She was very overgrown and neglected. Poor baby.) Here in CPH there is a tree in the Univeristy Havn that might be magical. When the Winter sunset strikes it it glows like someone has uplit it with sophisticated stage lighting. Right now its leaves are so beautiful. Trees represent wisdom to me…wisdom and resilience.

Elaine again: If you could meet an inspirational leader from the past or present, who would that be and what one question would you ask him or her?

I can’t really think of anyone from the past right now. I’d like a pow wow with some of my current personal leaders though. Jen Lee could coach me on how to get a journal project and a collection of audio essays ready for distribution. I’m really admiring her work lately. And Sharon Benton could keep advising me how to not squander my so called (cushy) life. Oh, and Leonie could teach me how to be less of an Eyeore and more of a goddess. That would be good!

Four more Q’s with their A’s coming up tomorrow….

Today is my birthday. I am 39 years old. One more year until the nice, round four-oh.

Thirty was a happy day for me. I was elated at 30. I threw myself an enormous party in which every one had to participate in a talent show. Ian read Beattle’s songs as droll British performance-art poetry. Karl wrote a comic ditty about me and sang while he played the piano. Neil put art up on an easle. Kami made her famous beef-stew-in-pumpkin. (And swore never to make it again after it sloshed all over the back of the pimp-mobile, which later spontaneously combusted on the front drive.)

I was emerging out of my post-partum depression, back into my pre-baby clothes, and happily on staff at a church that I loved. The decade looked promising.

The past few years have been harder than that blithe birthday would have lead me to believe. I’ve been sick most of this decade (chronic migraines); a huge idealogical shift has lead me away from the church and onto a more ancient-future faith that refuses to behave and is always giving me fits; and the home I thought I would grow old in is now occupied by renters while I learn how to live life abroad. It hasn’t been a terrible decade — far from it! But is has been more challenging, and more surprising that I ever could have imagined.

It makes me wonder what the next few years will be. Will my 40′s be as dramatically life altering as my 30′s? Will there be more children adopted by affection, and communities built and dismantled as the Universe dictates? Will there be books and columns, or will blogging remain my means of witness? Will I feel wiser in ten year’s time, or merely have more questions?

And speaking of questions, there is nothing I like better than being interviewed. I think this is charming, and I love what Leonie did here. If I could be interviewed full-time for a living I would be a very happy camper. So on this my birthday, I give you my lovely readers free reign. Ask me a question, any question, and I will tell you no lies. Because really, it’s my birthday, and I think today it’s okay for it to be all about me.

Thanks for celebrating with me!

With love from a very mild narcissist,

Rachelle