Listening at it’s best

Lately I’ve been thinking more about how tough it is to really listen. Maybe you can relate to this too. What got me started was an article I read in the Feb 13, 2012 issue of the America magazine entitled, “Vatican II at 50” by Richard Gaillardetz. Gaillardetz focused on Conversation starters: Dialog and Deliberation during Vatican II. He remarked that one of the dynamic characteristics of Vatican II dialogs was humble learning.

According to Gaillardetz, Vatican II reminded us that all disciples of Jesus are lifelong learners. And that this is as true for the pope as it is for children preparing for first Communion. And research has shown us that the greatest barrier to listening is, “having your mind so steadfastly made up that there is no room for dialog, no room for 'being a student' ” in the presence of someone who thinks differently than I. Christ was only impatient toward those who were arrogant in their certitude.

I cringe when I think of how often I have my response ready for anyone who disagrees with me on a given topic, even before they have had a chance to tell me why they value certain aspects of their lived-truths on this same topic. I can hardly ever stop my chain-of-thoughts unless I figure out a way to really be quiet long enough to take in what they are trying to tell me.

So far, the only ear-opening behavior I have found to learn from others, is to “Sit still, be quiet, and then ask them to give me an example of what leads them to value their opinion on the topic at hand." Often their example provides ample room for dialog that is both humbling and open.

I’m here to confess that I fail at this oftener than I succeed. That doesn’t keep me from continuing to try to hang out with others who think differently than I, so that my life-long-learning-lens can include an expanded view of unfolding lived-truths. I certainly know the safety I feel when I have been with someone who respectfully provided me the time and space to be- honest-out-loud in their presence.

THE EMPTY EGG

Jeremy was born with a twisted body and a slow mind. At the age of 12 he was still in second grade, seemingly unable to learn. His teacher, Doris Miller, often became exasperated with him. He would squirm in his seat, drool, and make grunting noises. At other times, he spoke clearly and distinctly, as if a spot of light had penetrated the darkness of his brain. Most of the time, however, Jeremy just irritated his teacher.

One day she called his parents and asked them to come in for a consultation. As the Forresters entered the empty classroom, Doris said to them, "Jeremy really belongs in a special school. It isn't fair to him to be with younger children who don't have learning problems. Why, there’s a five-year age gap between him and the other students."

Mrs. Forrester cried softly into a tissue while her husband spoke. "Miss Miller," he said, "there is no school of that kind nearby. It would be a terrible shock for Jeremy if we had to take him out of this school. We know he really likes it here."

Doris sat for a long time after they had left, staring at the snow outside the window. Its coldness seemed to seep into her soul. She wanted to sympathize with the Forresters. After all, their only child had a terminal illness. But it wasn't fair to keep him in her class. She had 18 other youngsters to teach, and Jeremy was a distraction. Furthermore, he would never learn to read and write. Why waste any more time trying?

As she pondered the situation, guilt washed over her. Here I am complaining when my problems are nothing compared to that poor family, she thought. Lord, please help me to be more patient with Jeremy.

From that day on, she tried hard to ignore Jeremy's noises and his blank stares. Then one day, he limped to her desk, dragging his bad leg behind him. “I love you, Miss Miller," he exclaimed, loudly enough for the whole class to hear.

The other students snickered, and Doris's face turned red. She stammered, "Wh-why, that's very nice, Jeremy. N-now please take your seat."

Spring came, and the children talked excitedly about the coming of Easter. Doris told them the story of Jesus and then, to emphasize the idea of new life springing forth, she gave each of the children a large plastic egg. "Now," she said to them, "I want you to take this home and bring it back tomorrow with something inside that shows new life. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Miss Miller," the children responded enthusiastically--all except for Jeremy. He listened intently, his eyes never leaving her face. He did not even make his usual noises. Had he under-stood what she had said about Jesus' death and resurrection? Did he understand the assignment? Perhaps she should call his parents and explain the project to them.

That evening, Doris' kitchen sink stopped up. She called the landlord and waited an hour for him to come by and unclog it. After that, she still had to shop for groceries, iron a blouse, and prepare a vocabulary test for the next day. She completely forgot about phoning Jeremy's parents.

The next morning, 19 children came to school, laughing and talking as they placed their eggs in the large wicker basket on Miss Miller's desk. After they completed their math lesson, it was time to open the eggs.

In the first egg, Doris found a flower. "Oh yes, a flower is certainly a sign of new life," she said. "When plants peek through the ground, we know that spring is here."

A small girl in the first row waved her arm. "That's my egg, Miss Miller," she called out.

The next egg contained a plastic butterfly, which looked very real. Doris held it up. "We all know that a caterpillar changes and grows into a beautiful butterfly. Yes, that's new life, too."

Little Judy smiled proudly and said, "Miss Miller, that one is mine."

Next, Doris found a rock with moss on it. She explained that moss, too, showed life. Billy spoke up from the back of the classroom. "My daddy helped me," he beamed.

Then Doris opened the fourth egg. She gasped. The egg was empty. Surely it must be Jeremy's she thought, and of course, he did not understand her instructions. If only she had not forgotten to phone his parents. Because she did not want to embarrass him, she quietly set the egg aside and reached for another. Suddenly, Jeremy spoke up. "Miss Miller, aren't you going to talk about my egg?"

Flustered, Doris replied, "But Jeremy, your egg is empty." Jeremy looked into her eyes and said softly, "Yes, but Jesus' tomb was empty, too."

Time stopped. When she could speak again, Doris asked him, "Do you know why the tomb was empty?"
"Oh, yes," Jeremy said, "Jesus was killed and put in there. Then His Father raised Him up."

The recess bell rang. While the children excitedly ran out to the school yard, Doris cried. The cold inside her melted completely away. Three months later, Jeremy died. Those who paid their respects at the mortuary were surprised to see 19 eggs on top of his casket, all of them empty.

The Instant They Surrender

I have been enamored lately with spring: trees bearing green buds, crocuses announcing the beginning of a new season, tulips springing up, and bright yellow daffodils greeting me on my walks. Every year the wonder of spring amazes me. As I prepare for Holy Week at the monastery, I am aware of how nature parallels the Easter season and the Paschal mystery. Life comes from death. Death cannot overpower life and resurrection. Amazingly, our spirit witnesses that same process in conversion and the journey of our lives.


In a reflection titled, “The Courage of the Seed,” Mark Nepo writes:

All the buried seeds
crack open in the dark
the instant they surrender
to a process they can’t see.
                                                  -- The Book of Awakening

Spring discloses a powerful lesson. All around us, everything small and buried surrenders to a process that none of buried parts can see. And this innate surrender allows everything edible and fragrant to break out of the dark and damp ground into a life we call spring.

Quietly, nature offers us countless models of how to give ourselves over to what appears dark and hopeless, but is really an awakening beyond imagining. Moving through the dark into more abundant life is the Easter of our soul. Like a seed “cracking open” in the process of becoming, may Holy Week open us to the mystery of God’s love blossoming into divine beauty.

What You Really Love

Today a friend emailed thisthis Rumi quote to me .

"Let yourself be silently drawn

by the strange pull of what you really love.

It will not lead you astray."

Suddenly hints of Spring came flooding into my imagination… grass greening, lilac branches plumping and more. And I remember so vividly how easily I move out of awareness and into unawareness as I walk through my days. And then I recall that some of my friends regularly choose to take their newly purchased calendar and reserve specific 36 hour-blocks-of-silent-time each month to spend at our monastery hermitage. This they do in pencil, so if absolutely necessary it can be shifted but never totally erased from that specific month. It’s their way of allowing time to let silent awareness have its due time in their word-filled lives.

Brother David Steindl-Rast would add a delightful practice to their hermitage “awareness time” for those who are interested. He suggests that there is a simple way to explore “seeing into the heart of things” and freeing wonder and gratitude to spontaneously arise.

Once, he invited retreatants to “Take a holy card with you tomorrow. Just a 3x5 card with a pin-hole punched in it. Then walk up to a fabric, the wings of a beetle, or even the underside of a plant or weed and look very carefully at it through the hole in your card. When you block out everything around you except a tiny, tiny space you are able to see things your never saw before in your life.”

Maybe that’s another way for me to rediscover the strange pull of what I really love, care about and am immensely grateful for. It may even leave room for the God-given way of seeing things to become visible in my life.

Who is the True Conservative? What is Conservatism?

One thing you count on is that on Friday nights, about 80% of the Sisters will be watching TV, many of them watching Washington Week. I have fallen into this habit myself. Often, I will excuse myself from a party to watch Washington Week with my housemates.

Lately, this news hour review of world and national events has been covering the Republican, presidential race. I am not adept at negotiating the waters of politics and faith, but I’m amused at the recent focus on conservatism and who qualifies as a real conservative. What exactly does conservatism look like? Does it come in a variety of flavors like Baskin Robbins ice cream? Are there different shades of conservatism? Can people agree on a single definition of conservatism?

Yesterday, I was asked my opinion on the selection of carpet for a hall way. On the table there must have been fifty swatches of different colors, patterns, and variegations. Most of us couldn’t decide and finally picked a swatch matching our personal preferences. We all knew the small swatch would look different depending on hall size, wall color and lighting. I think this is a lot like conservatism with regard to politics. We only get “swatches” from each candidate, and we know that what we hear will look much different in the broader scheme of the present political arena.  

I regret Andrew Rooney isn’t alive to do a Sixty Minutes clip on conservatism. He might muse out loud  about whether Republicans have a monopoly on conservatism, or whether a Democrat, Libertarian, or Independent might be conservative on some issues. Maybe, what we are looking for is not whether someone fits one of the above categories, but the ability of politicians, as well as all of us, to listen to the merits of every perspective. Could we benefit from Benedict’s advice when he asks us to do the following: “They should each try to be the first to show respect to the other, supporting with the greatest patience one another’s weaknesses of body and behavior ... ”
If we did that, could we stop the ways labeling one another prevents good things from getting done?

Signed – S. Trisherooney, OSB

An Ode to Ashes

An Ode to Ashes


Lent has never been my favorite “sacred” season—as a child, an adolescent, a middle-ager or now, as a senior citizen. I have come to terms with it, of course, and I know I should welcome this time as an opportunity to be ever more open to where the Spirit blows, though it is still a struggle. However, as I reflect on the recently-passed Ash Wednesday I do have an upward lilt of the heart.

Each Ash Wednesday other Sisters and I marvel at the outpouring of students who come to chapel in the late afternoon to participate in the Mass and—probably most important to them, the imposition of ashes on their foreheads. We sometimes chuckle as we note “They’re coming out of the woodwork.” People we don’t see in chapel any other time will come to the Ash Wednesday services [reported by many a parish minister, too!]. And that’s a good thing, I believe. Something about this age-old ritual still speaks to them and, at least for this particular time, they are in tune with the Church and with the age-old mystery of God reaching out to us with love and mercy-- and we being willing to acknowledge our sins and need of this love and mercy. I got a warm glow as I received my ashes and watched the “hordes” of others receiving theirs. And somehow I am deeply comforted and at peace.

Catch the fire of enthusiasm

I read a line yesterday that stays with me! Maybe it touched my winter doldrums or a Lenten day that had not yet experienced Easter risings! But I know I need to take this idea beyond mere insight into action:

"Catch on fire with enthusiasm and people will come from afar to watch you burn."

Recently I was trying to help our secristan light a candle that just would not receive the flame held over it. I took the candle out of the holder to bring it to eye level. . . and what we saw was a piece of wire extending beyond that part of the wick that could easily be set aflame! Immediately we by-passed the wire and the wick caught fire. I went back to my pew and watched that candle burn brightly! Of course, I thought of the quote: "Catch the fire of enthusiasm and people will come from afar to watch you burn."

We, too, burn and die a bit, change and move a bit-- day by day-- when fanned by the Spirit. Enthusiastic, joy-filled action attracts; it may challenge; it surely gives off light. Nothing wrong about that, is there? And does the enthusiasm minimize the dying even as it simultaneously lights up the eyes, warms the fire of love in one's words, gives a lilt to one's voice or joy to one's relationships? No, I don't think so. I would come from afar, too, to see this life and light in you!