She remembers finding solace in the woods, to help her survive a difficult childhood.
She sits. Perhaps she chooses the sled because she is just that desperate. She proposes a spiritual practice for those who need respite—for people who feel busy and a little crushed. For people like me. My church school classroom houses a foot long history of the Jewish people. Each time we unroll the timeline, I note how much biblical history passed before the written word, before written scripture was available to the common person.
How did they worship, before these stories could be read from a page? They built altars from the stones they found, as a way to say thanks to God, and they talked through the stories by firelight, under the open sky. Barkat suggests we return to the open sky for a daily pilgrimage, without an agenda for ourselves or for God. She commits to sitting under the edge of the trees of her backyard for the better part of an hour, no matter the weather, every day for a year.
She proposes that the reader wait for God in some corner of nature, an hour a day for 12 weeks. She sees the way forsythia buds open, the way trees are shaped, the way a neglected patch of urban dirt still tells the glory of God. She finds a way to Sabbath rest.
And that might be enough, but L. She looks at the Jewish festivals of Sukkot and Pentecost and how these festivals drew people out from under their own roofs, out into the sky and vulnerable to the elements. Barkat knows how crazy this looks.
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Barkat has written. I especially avoid books on personal journaling.
I find nothing more spirit-killing than writing prompts, since I have enough to consider without outside suggestion. The idea of a daily spiritual discipline sends me right to the kitchen to find the half-eaten bag of chocolate chips. I would generally be repelled by a book titled 12 weeks to anything. Three things draw me beyond my wariness, though: poetry is a puzzle. Good poet that she is, Barkat describes God in the yard. My yard?
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My ugly yard? The woods were a place I sought solace from a difficult life. I floated sticks and made pine needle beds. Sometimes I raced my sister across the creek rocks, then knocked her into the reeds. In the woods I was free. Today, the squeal of a garbage truck wakes me three times a week. Horns and sirens break through the quiet of dawn and night. My house clings to the edge of a hill, less than a quarter of an acre in size, and a rusty chain-link fence hitches my yard to the yards of my neighbors.
Three unidentified cats use my front steps to nap and my back yard to poop. My sister lives far away. There is a part of me that feels pinched in this life—a life I freely chose when I put a distance between me and my growing-up place. That is why I first returned to the woods.
And you? A single fir spreads her arms above a patch of English ivy. Two maples reach to the sun. Wood-winged bushes and thorns tussle in the shade. Technically an edge is where one habitat meets another—where grass gradually gives way to bushes, which gives way to trees, or vice versa. I saw this recently, on a trip south.
By being little they protect themselves against erosion, but their smallness also permits attention to be focused accurately and competently on the details. The fields stay intact because they are little.
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Could I find something worthwhile in my little back yard? Berry seemed to suggest it was possible. Well, I was feeling limited.
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Not just with my tiny yard space, but also in my professional development. An extended writing project had left me feeling oddly empty. It stirred a longing for those big woods of long ago, made me covet childhood walks and lazy afternoons of tracing sticks in the mud. It also created a sense of professional discontent.
I wanted more time to focus. No more of this writing-on-the-edge-of-a-napkin! I wanted to go to exotic places to jumpstart my creativity. I needed an Annie Dillard-style trip to the Galapagos. When you hear the phrase "spiritual practice," you might think of traditional Christian disciplines like lectio divina or Scripture memorization. While the following practices depart somewhat from those traditions, if practiced regularly, these, too, though unconventional, can be extraordinarily powerful in guiding you into the present moment and drawing you closer to God, which is ultimately the essence and purpose of a spiritual discipline.
The Spiritual Practice of Staying in Place Benedictine monks and nuns take a vow of stability when they first join the order. To "affirm sameness" is radically counter-cultural in our society.ranssagourpe.tk
3 Unconventional Spiritual Practices For Your Soul | HuffPost
We are conditioned, even encouraged, to drop one thing and move onto the next. Yet it's clear this relentless pursuit of the perfect place, the perfect situation, the perfect job, and the perfect person often leads to restlessness, anxiety, discontent, and even distance from God.
Outside the monastery, stability as a spiritual discipline can be practiced on both the macro and micro level. Practicing stability in the big picture of our lives means practicing contentment and gratitude in our careers, our parenting, our marriages, our homes, and our places. On a micro level, the spiritual practice of staying in place might look like sitting on a park bench for five minutes during your daily dog walk, or gazing out the window during the few minutes it takes for your morning tea to steep.
Spiritual Practices for Building a Life of Faith
Allowing ourselves to stop, to stay in one place, even for a few moments, offers us a chance to rest, to breathe, and to experience communion with God in the minutiae of our daily lives. The Spiritual Practice of Digging Dandelions When done mindfully, digging dandelions, doing dishes, folding laundry, washing the car, or any other monotonous chore on your to-do list can become a spiritual practice.
This past spring, after one look at the blur of yellow blanketing nearly every inch of my front yard, I pulled on my gardening gloves, grabbed the dandelion digger from the garage and proceeded to rid my lawn of the noxious weed, one bright bloom at a time. As I kneeled, I let myself be immersed in the sights, sounds, and smells of creation.
My body relaxed into a rhythm, the cool grass bleeding circles of damp on the knees of my jeans. I began to notice and focus on my environment - the pungent smell of early spring dirt, the fresh scent of new growth high up in the pine boughs, the staccato call of the chickadee, the rise and fall of voices up the street, two neighbors chatting in the morning sun. I was fully present in the moment. The next time you have a particularly monotonous chore on your to-do list, try doing it mindfully.
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