Contemplative Prayer

Light

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It’s nearly the equinox.

It is noticeable now, how quickly the light is drawing back from the edges of the days.  Outside jobs cannot be left. A torch is sometimes useful.  I do mourn the loss of light, but know that the darkness has its compensations – lamplight, wood fires, stars.

Below is a poem I wrote on Sizewell beach.  The photos above are from Walberswick, a little along the coast, where the North Sea has the same dark beauty.  I sat on the beach as the light faded, both watching and experiencing the loss of it, and the spread of the deeper blue of early night.  I saw my field of vision narrowing, and had a sensation of being, therefore, somehow at the centre, at the focus of what light there was.  An illusion, of course, based on the wonderful way the eye works – but a powerful and helpful one.  It enabled me to get off the beach when I finally turned my back on the sea.  It is like having a lamp for your feet.

While it lasted, that sense of being at the centre – one of many centres – was a place of prayer, a sacred place. I was aware of God, the source of light – and also of the light, the sea and the sky that were around me.  It was one of those times outside time, when we simply are, and are aware of that which is greater than us – aware of our own smallness, and our own participation in something vast, and beautiful.

Light, and its absence, have been on my mind as I have been writing about Jesus’ I AM sayings, particularly “I am the Light of the World”.  Perhaps that’s why this villanelle surfaced in my memory.

It is a loose interpretation of the verse form, with its three line stanzas and repeated lines, circling around, but it was the one that seemed to fit what the poem was trying to be.

 

LIGHT

Here, quiet on this stony shore, light
drains from the edges first. Blue deepens to blue,
leaving one pool of brightness against the night,

as the starlight, faint at first, shines bright
on the black waves that rise and fold,
here, quiet on this stony shore. Light

flecks the foam that trembles and shines white,
as the circle of darkness turns closer,
leaving one pool of brightness against the night.

Now, in the blackness, bright birds stop their flight
and shut their starfilled eyes against the dark.
Here, quiet on this stony shore, light

shines on white pebbles, shimmering and starbright
as shadows seep and spread like tar rising,
leaving one pool of brightness against the night.

The stars, the foam, and the pebbles shine with light
that washes and wells and rises
here, quiet on this stony shore. Light
leaving one pool of brightness against the night.

 

 

Days

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Hurry.  I am ill suited to it – especially as the days grow hot.  I wrote this poem as a kind of rebellion against the feeling that my time was constrained, not my own, running away from me while I seemed to have none of it for the important things.

So I snatched time, and wrote.  As I wrote, as I paid attention to what was around me, I felt the time slow.  I felt myself breathe again. I felt the hard shells of the seconds soften, crack, and open like the seeds in the ground – become things of infinite possibility again.  I realised that, although my home is not the manor described in the poem, there are ways in which it is.  I can inhabit my days as if they were timeless, spacious, connected.  By slowing, by paying attention, by breathing, I found what I needed.  Most of all, though, for me, it is by writing.  Writing freely, writing the moment before me, is a kind of contemplation. It can become a kind of prayer.
I am reminded of Mary Oliver’s great advice –

Pay attention   Be astonished   Tell about it.

This poem was highly commended for the Crabbe Memorial Prize.
You can listen to it here

 

Days

There is little time –
flowers run to seed so fast under
this strong sun, this dry blue sky,
their leaves curling crisply, blanching.
Their hurry towards death unsettles me
as their stems rattle brown, poppyseeds
pouring through my fingers, tiny and dark,
pouring away like hard-shelled seconds.

I want to inhabit each day slowly, quietly,
as if it were an ancient manor among gentle lands,
with warm red brick thick with years,
that smells of fires, and of rosepetals
as they overflow cracked china bowls,
where time hangs in the spaces between
each tick of the clock, and open doors
let in the endless songs of trees.

There, I could think – uncurl fresh leaves,
as time shimmers like the deep pool, full of lilies,
where the bright dragonfly waits, and waits.

The ‘Mary, at your feet’ poems – One

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Two years ago, in May, I was thinking about the three times Mary of Bethany was at Jesus’ feet.  One story is recounted in Luke, the other two in John, where they are a part of the extraordinary Lazarus narrative.  I wanted to explore them more, and I did so in what turned into a series of three poems.  I read early versions of these poems at a local Christian festival, Alive, and as the time of year comes around again, I find I am remembering them, and going back to those thoughts.  I share the first one with you today, and the others will come in their own time, over the next week or so, as I continue to turn them over in my mind.

This first one draws on the story in Luke’s gospel where Jesus visits the home of Martha and Mary, and Mary sits at his feet.  I have not referred to Martha directly, except for in the title.  I do feel her lack. I wonder, in particular, what happened next.  Maybe there are some poems to write about her, too.

There is so much to ponder in this story, but what caught my attention was how hard it is for us to be still, to be.  We are so distracted, so pulled by so many things. We can end up  feeling that those things are what define us. That it is what we do, or think, or believe, or  how people view us that makes us who we are. Just being doesn’t seem enough, but our efforts to be more or different or better than we are can be life-sapping.
Acceptance can be hard to accept!

In writing this poem, I hoped to create a place of stillness. The kind of place where contemplative prayer begins.  A place where we can open up a little to love, and light. A place where we know we are welcomed.

The photograph is taken in the Chapel of St Peter on the Wall, Bradwell on Sea, Essex.

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Mary, sister of Martha, at your feet for the first time

You came in search of rest
away from the road,
that bright, shadeless road,
where so many came,
and you gave so much.

You came and sat down
in the cool room,
the shutters pulled
against the heat,
and Mary sat, too,
and it was enough.
Just sat, quietly, at your feet,
her face turned up to
yours as she listened.
And you saw how the light
fell across her,
as if for the first time.

And this is what you want,
what you long for.
Not the elaborate
preparations we would make,
not ourselves swept and
scrubbed to perfection,
our acts and our
thoughts impeccable
in lifeless rows,
but to be,  here in this light,
to be, here at your feet,
Luke 10:38-42

 

You can read the second poem here

and the third one here

Contemplative Prayer – The Cloud of Unknowing

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One of the joys of working for Quiet Spaces is that the meditations you write months ago seem to come back when you need them.  So this morning, the latest edition arrived in the post, reminding me of a prayer practice that had slipped away.

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For this issue, packed with good things, I wrote a series of meditations and explorations of The Cloud of Unknowing. The 14th century text is an extraordinarily rich resource for anyone interested in contemplative prayer. It feels very necessary and timely to me right now, and with the Archbishops’ initiative for a week of prayer before Pentecost, I am finding it helpful  to look again at this way of praying.
The Cloud seeks to remind us that God is above our knowledge, but accessible in love. It asks us to wait, to lose our discomfort with “unknowing”, to be prepared to be in what can feel like a cloud.  We are often afraid of mystery, and sometimes prefer knowing to loving, so this type of prayer calls for humility, and patience with ourselves.  It seems to deepen our ability to connect.

Here is my first suggestion to begin – it may help if you are following the week of prayer.

You may wish to establish a pattern for contemplative prayer.  For example (you could)  turn off technology, find a place, light a candle, do some steadying breathing.  Begin with this verse:

“My soul thirst for God, for the living God.  When can I go and meet with God?”
Psalm 42:2

Calm your mind.  Let go of thoughts. Focus your loving attention on God, who is always present. Stay in the stillness, the silence, for as long as you can.  When your mind wanders, try again.
“Lift up your heart to God with humble love”
The Cloud of Unknowing, Chapter 3

This act of prayer begins with the act of lifting up your heart, and directing your loving attention, to the source of love.

The Cloud of Unknowing is well worth reading. It is broken into small sections, which helps slow down the process and make it less about mastering a technique, or gaining knowledge, and more about entering into presence.
Penguin classics have an excellent version, and you can also access an online version here