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!

mother mary calls to me, whispers words of wisdom…

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

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

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

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

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)

Eden in the role of fairy at the arboretum in 2006. Picture by MadGiddy.

There is a demonstration garden at the college of agriculture and veterinarian arts, which lies between our flat and the children’s school. I walk through it sometimes, on my way back, to escape the roar of the traffic on the morning-busy streets around our new home. The garden is moving towards its finest season, unfurling leaves and blooms.

There might be fairies here, I think, and thin spaces such as the Celt’s revere. A friend of mine, a full-blown adult, believes in fairies. She is not the type to wear caftans either, or to name her children ‘Willow.’ She’s actually an incredibly intelligent and well reasoned academic. She works with the poor all over the world, and struggles to find paths of escape for those caught in the throes of human trafficking. She is wise, my friend, and knows you cannot love reason too much and still nurture hope. And so, fairies. Why not? Why can’t the earth and her energy—the creative force of fern and flower, earth and air—why can’t these things sometimes appear to those with sighted eyes? Stranger things have happened.

At the very least, there is creative power in this place, so eagerly tended by students, their futures unfurling before their very eyes—all the possibilities of their own growth spilling out with earth and seed from their mulch-rubbed fingertips. All this cultivating. All this growth. It is the first thing we know of our parental divines: God Created. God creates. In this bright urban garden, with people barely out of their teens, that holy work continues.

I walk through the curving paths, trying out a new graveled walk or step-stone passage each time I visit. Today the garden leads me to Mallard couples, sleeping in loose pairs on the grass with their heads tucked under their wings. They look for all the world like croquet balls abandoned when the players were called away to tea. There is a pond here too, with a marsh tucked into one curve, and a lily pad farm in the other. As I walk along the curve of the pond, past low borders of bent-willow fencing and calla lilies as yellow as lemon tarts, I am greeted by a cherry tree which stretches wide where the pond path meets the trail to the gate. I pause there under her branches, the beautiful cherry, always our first hope of Spring. The air seems to hum with energy. Thin Spots. Fairydom. In a heartbeat she christens me, the cherry tree and her humming court. And then, with a slight reluctance, I move on, towards the traffic and city bustle, the chores and the normal—life beyond the narrow gate.

Just before I reach the street, there is a transitional space of sorts—the brick-paved expanse of the college drive which stretches wide between the garden and the roadway. There, I am greeted by the school’s fountain: five charcoal granite slabs slick in the sunlight. I hesitate a moment, feeling obvious and strange. Then I walk up the slick lower steps to the spring bubbling forth at the top, dip in my hand, touch my forehead, breastbone, the boney crest of each shoulder.

A baptism then, into the life of fairy and mallard, lily and tree.

For most posts about my sacred life click here, or become present to your own sacred life with Sacred Life Sunday. Thank you for being here!

100 Graces: Mealtime Blessings
Marcia & Jack Kelly

My daughter Cate has always been a pray-er. When she was a toddler she saw “Jesus giving the butterflies food.” She’s never turned back.

We have a family ritual at dinner time of lighting the candles and saying a prayer. This year, for Christmas, Cate got 100 Graces: Mealtime Blessings in her stocking. Now, with the allure of so many choice in such a tiny book, even her sister who is less sold on the whole idea wrangles for a chance to say the dinner time prayer.

100 Graces: Mealtime Blessingsis a simple book:one page, one prayer. It’s ecclectic, multifaith and offers a little something for everyone. Cate’s current favorite:

“Just to be is a blessing. Just to live is holy.” -Abraham Joshu Heschel

and my current preference:

“O God, bless this food we are about to recieve. Give bread to those who hunger; and hunger for justice to us who have bread.” -a prayer from Nicaragua

Today’s Flavor: An easy ‘Amen.’

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When we were living in Seattle, we choose a public school for our kids that had as much ethnic diversity as our mostly-white part of the city would allow. For four years the girls jumped rope with little pixie girls from Cambodia, dark haired chiquas from Mexico, and quiet girls in long skirts and hijabs.

During that time I managed to build bridges with most of the parents, but the quiet Muslim mama’s remained distant from me. There was the language barrier, true, but that didn’t seem to stop me from speaking Spanglish with the Latino moms. And there were cultural differences, but I was doing okay with the Cambodian families. So why couldn’t I connect with the Mama’s in hijabs who did little more than offer shy smiles at my friendly waves? Invitations for play dates went unanswered, questions about holiday plans for Eid were brushed aside, and the little girls were swept away as soon the students came pouring out the door at the sound of the 3:10 bell. What was I missing about my usually successful “how to win friends and influence people” equation?

The Fear. I was forgetting about the fear.

We all know that since 9-11 people who “look Muslim” have been treated like the enemy, regardless of their nationality or the stringency of their beliefs. But I was living on the other side of the country from NYC, and in my über-PC west-coast city, I thought those racist attitudes were rare enough that the fear held by Islamic families had dissipated. Surely the racist extremism of those initial post 9-11 years had mellowed. Surely visibly Islamic families living in most parts of America were now feeling relatively safe.

The privileged safe anonymity of being white, middle class, and (mostly) Christian in America had once again lulled me into false assumptions about my sisters on the other side of the color line. Thankfully, Ira Glass and Company/a> gave this WASP a wakeup call, and my consciousness was once again raised.

I adore Ira Glass and will gladly listen to This American Life on an unending loop. The girls and I often listen to back episodes on line, and a few days ago we tuned into the Shouting Across the Great Divide, an award winning story by Alix Spiegl. Spiegl captured the story of Serry and her family, Muslims living in the U.S. When my 4th grader, Eden, heard the stories of why Serry’s 4th grader, Chloe, had to leave her public schools, she was appalled. And by the time Chole’s best friend walks right past her without acknowledging her existence, Eden was in tears. When Serry’s husband opts for living in the West Bank of Palestine rather than enduring the strain of being a Muslim man in America, I joined in the crying. Not knowing what else to do for our sisters across the waters, Eden I fell back on our standard response. We lit candles. We said prayers. We tried to hold space for Serry and her family—we tried to hold space for hope.

No wonder the Muslim mamas at the kids’ school did not trust my conversational overtures, and the beautiful African women in abayads declined to make eye contact. In addition to the cultural differences that divide us, they were living in a tension I’ve never experienced. I was blithely throwing out “why can’t we all just get along” vibes. They were living in a constant low grade hum of fear.

I have been longing to make a connection with my Muslim sisters for a long time now, and I had hoped that our move to Copenhagen with its growing Islamic neighborhoods might be the thing that helped those connections get made. But as this country’s political debate over immigration in general, and Muslim immigration in particular, loops around itself in angry spirals, I began to despair of those friendships ever being possible. Could relational bridges be built? Or will we continue to shout across the great divide?

I believe we can do it. I believe women can build bridges—that we can see opportunities others may not perceive. And there are stories—real , live, it-just-happened-to-me stories—out there in the blogosphere that will help me hold on to that belief. This week, Catherine McNeil at Everyday Life as Lyric Poetry records an inspiring tale about meeting folks over the quest for ethical meat. And Jen Lemen, my soulsister in WASPy-ness and one of the best cross-cultural bridge builders I have ever met, offers us this report of finding siblinghood with a brother from another mother. Both are stories of simple connections made over every day transactions. They inspire me and give me hope. These stories tell me that we don’t need a stellar plan of global proportions to create the ties that bind. Being present is enough. Being attentive to our every day will give us the chance to say ‘yes’ to the openings around. With attentiveness and intent, we can grasp each other’s hands as we stretch them across a (not) so great divide.

Okay John, go ahead and play us out.

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Souren wearing the keffiyeh he got for his birthday in 2005.

If you walk around downtown Copenhagen for any length of time, you will see dozens of teens wearing the keffiyeh. White kids, most of them with shockingly blond hair, sporting the keffiyeh as an accessory to tight jeans and Chuck Taylor all stars. The boys wear them in the traditional black or red. The girls have them in everything from turquoise to hot pink. You can get them for less than $50 kroner ($10 US) at any stand on the street.

I asked our sometimes-teenager Souren, who lived most of his life with the Euro-kids in Germany, what this prevalence of the keffiyeh is all about. Did it mean that a lot of young people in the EU supprted Palestine’s quest for independence? Did it have something to do with aligning themselves with the much-maligned Muslim communities here in Denmark? Did the girls wear it as feminist statement aligning them with freedom-fighter Lelia Kahled, who was one of the first women to be noted wearing the traditionally male headscarf? Were they showing solidarity with recent Muslim immigrants who are struggling in this new country? What was the appeal of these Middle-Eastern head coverings worn in this cold clime as scarves against the winter chill?

Souren tells me that in Germany kids who like the peace loving tunes of reggae & skaa punk wear them; and that these kids often go to protests against the neo-Nazis. (Something that looms larger in his German upbringing than it ever did in my Californian youth.) But here, they seem to be merely in fashion.

I am long past being a teen, and I think that in this society, it would be ridiculous of me to wear the keffiyeh. But part of me wants to don this ethnic wear, to wrap something around me that would stand out as a sign to my Muslim neighbors – something that would say “I am with you. Don’t be afraid. You would have a warm welcome here.”

As racism and tragedy seep like poison into the veins of my new city, this becomes my prayer—that peaceful ties might reign in my neighborhood. That love might stretch across the great divide. That I might wear a badge of solidarity with all of those who seek to co-exist, as we wend our way towards Allah, towards God, toward Yahweh–stumbling as we are towards the Great Divine.

How much time are we willing to spend debating right thinking at the expense of right living?

The last couple of years I’ve been captivated by the idea of orthopraxy as opposed to orthodoxy. Orthodoxy is the concept of ‘right thinking,’ or ‘right belief.’ In a system which requires orthodoxy, belonging requires one to believe a certain set of assertions. If one cannot ascribe to those beliefs, then membership in that system is denied, and one can no longer belong.

Orthopraxy on the other hand is the idea of having ‘right practice.’ Rather than requiring alignment to doctrinal assertions, an orthopraxy places the emphasis on living according to a certain collection of practices.

Karen Armstrong, an interfaith specialist who writes and teaches about Islam, Judaism, and Christianity, writes in her autobiography about her own realization that one could be a person of faith without holding orthodox beliefs.

As a part of her research work, Armstrong was introduced to Jewish scholar Hyam Maccoby, who introduced her to the idea that one could have a faith based upon right living rather than right belief. In fact, he told her, the idea that faith is primarily about right belief is largely a Christian phenomenon.

“It is easy to see that you were brought up Christian….Theology is just not important in Judaism, or in any other religion really. . … We have orthopraxy instead of orthodoxy…right practice rather than right belief. That’s all. You Christians make such a fuss about theology, but it’s not important in the way you think….We Jews don’t bother much about what we believe. We just do it instead.” The Spiral Staircase P. 235,236

This is probably an oversimplification, and certainly striving after right practice can easily become a legalistic lecture about ticking things off your holy checklist. Still, after a life time of worrying about my orthodoxy, it feels good to focus on how I’m living for awhile.

I’ve been especially inspired this week by soulful folks who have found small and beautiful ways to, as Maccoby says, “just do it” in the world. Each one is an example of an orthopraxy that reflects the beauty and creativity which lies at their spiritual cores.

Tess at Anchors and Masts is spreading the word about World Water Day and inspiring people to take simple, practical steps towards getting communities access to safe drinking water.

Over at Dahl Bat small-sized projects in literacy and fair trade in Kolkata, India.

Young Laura over at Twenty Five Days to Make a Difference has taken her values viral and has inspired kids and adults alike to do something proactive every month to make the world a better place.

And finally, in an act that hits close to home, a small group of Small is Beautiful bloggers are working together to do an on-line auction for sister-blogger Jenni Ballantyne of The Comfy Place. Jen is living her last days with fierce honesty as she looks at the end of line in her fight against colon cancer. To find out how you can help raise funds for her final treatment and for her son’s future, go over to Jena’s place at Bullseye Baby and do some orthopraxis of your very own.

Here’s to orthopraxis in all the best sense of the word. Shalom!

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is it enough
this story,
this ideal,
this wistful thing—

the teacher speaking soft in the garden,
mouthing my name,
warm-blooded and real.

when I grow tired of picking,
sorting fact from fiction,
lies like stones among the lentils,
truths as yellow bulbs among the rocks,

when I tire of this painstaking plucking

i hold instead,
one smooth egg
one round stone
one child, with chocolate on her mouth and songs on her tongue.

he is wisen, comes the lisp
he is wisen indeed!

tell me true things, i whisper,
my face held close,
warm against her neck.

she sings to me
an edict, a lullaby,
ubi caritas, maman,
ubi caritas et amor
ubi caritas, deus ibi est.

where there is charity, there is love
where there is love
there god is.

enough, i think,
to hold this egg
this stone
this child
enough, to say ‘amen.’

The snow
began here
this morning and all day
continued, its white
rhetoric everywhere
calling us back to why, how,
whence such beauty and what
the meaning;

and though the questions
that have assailed us all day
remain–not a single
answer has been found–
walking out now
into the silence and the light
under the trees,
and through the fields,
feels like one.

Mary Oliver
New and Selected Poems: Volume One
New and Selected Poems, Volume Two