Frank is Emptiness

February 18th, 2018

It is like walking into a theater halfway through a movie. There is some confusion as to what is going on. I was there at the very start of the Longest walk 5.3, but I still felt disoriented. You see, nothing ever really starts fresh. Each event is based on something that previously occurred, and each new thing has a history. My problem is that I don’t anything about that history. I don’t know the context.

I was there in the parking lot of the Silver Reef Casino for the water ceremony. I saw the ritual with the altar, with its buffalo skull, its bundles of sage, and the pipe (chanupa). But I didn’t understand it all, over even most of it. There are too many gaps in my knowledge, too many holes in my experience.

A Lakota Indian serves as the spiritual guide for the walk. I do not yet know his name. He’s a scary dude. That may not be a bad thing. He spoke to the assembled group, as the cold wind blew in from Canada. He stayed and chanted, as did his wife. He said some harsh things.

“If you are not 100% with this walk, with our prayer, GO HOME!”

I wasn’t expecting to hear that. He sad the same sort of thing over and over. He made it clear that this walk is not about ego and not about media exposure. It’s about “the people”, although I am not sure who exactly he meant by “the people”. Is it the Native American people, or “people” in a universal sense?

Later, a young man told me about a previous walk. During that walk there was dissension and strife. Part of the Lakota’s talk was in reference to this earlier journey. The spiritual guide wants to prevent a repeat of those troubles.

His words made me think. I had to question my own intentions and motivations. So, why am I here? The honest answer to that is “I don’t know”. I really don’t. I know in my gut that I am supposed to be here with these people. I can’t explain why. I have no rational understanding of all this. If the Lakota cornered me and asked me for my purpose, I would have nothing to say. Maybe he would understand that no answer is also an answer. He said that the spirits tell him what is the hearts of the walkers. Then he known more than I do.

An old man, Wonder Knee, also spoke. He said that all life is sacred, and that we are all one people. That was comforting. Wounded Knee also made it clear that drugs and booze were not allowed on the walk.

Earlier, I talked with an Indian woman named Beatrice. She told me about the importance of protecting women and children from violence. She said,

“Our men must be strong. You must protect us.”I said that I would try.

She became adamant. “No, YOU must protect women!”

I keep thinking about that. I have done a good job of that thus far. I don’t feel like I have.

We didn’t walk far yesterday. Maybe eight miles. We walked on a rad near the coast. Whitecaps rode the waves on the sea. The birches bent in the wind. Across the water, the Cascades stood tall. Mount Baker shown white in sun.

It was beautiful.

 

 

 

February 16th, 2018

Lush. Lush and intensely green. That was how the world looked to me yesterday as I walked through Gazzam Lake Park on the west side of Bainbridge Island. The park has a trail that snakes through the forest toward the sea. Towering Douglas firs and  majestic cedars surround the path, blocking the view of a typically overcast sky. Ferns grow among  leaves that have fallen from the naked branches of the birch trees. Lichen and fluorescent green moss cling to the trunks and branches of the trees. It is not spring yet, but the low bushes have small buds. Ivy creeps on the earth.  I saw a lone holly, with its shiny, serrated leaves. Everything was wet yesterday morning. The woods were cool and damp.

I hiked along the trail. It descended gently until it came close to the water’s edge. Then  the path dropped steeply. It followed a zigzag pattern down a steep bluff. The walkway was narrow and winding, without pavement or handrails.

I saw a fallen cedar. It had broken off near the bottom of the trunk. The splintered wood showed a bright rust red in sharp in contrast to the predominant green of the forest. It was if the tree had bled all over the ground as it fell and died.

I came to the shore of the strait that separates the island from the Olympic Peninsula. Waves lapped on round stones. I dipped my hand into the water and put my fingers in my mouth to taste the salt. Low grey clouds skidded across the sky. The wind blew from the south and sighed in the woods above me.

I sat down on a granite boulder. I did nothing. I was just there.

 

 

 

February 16th, 2018

I walked into the temple around 5:30 AM. The service was going to start at 6:00. I wasn’t expecting to even be in temple this morning. We were supposed to be on our way to Blaine for the start of the Longest Walk. The walk didn’t happen today.

The walk is postponed until Sunday morning. This was a bit of a surprise to everyone here. The Native American group let Senji know about the change last night, only hours before the show was scheduled to begin. My understanding is that one of the organizers had a death in his family (grandmother, I believe). Out of respect for the family, the entire walk was pushed back two days. Now the walk will start on Sunday, the 18th, at 11:00 AM in the town of Ferndale, WA. I guess we begin on journey in the parking lot of a tribal casino.

Senji told me last, “We are on Indian time now. This is typical for walks with Native Americans.”

I’m flexible. I got nothing but time. I think that I understand a little how the Indians value family above almost everything else. It is becoming clear to me that I am going to learn a lot on this walk, and my own attitudes are going to be challenged. We haven’t even started yet, and it is already blowing my mind.

Anyway, I digress. I was going to talk about chanting.

The temple itself is cold and dark when not in use. Senji only keeps two tiny lamps burning on the altar. The altar has multiple levels. At the top are golden images of the Buddha and the bodhisattvas. A little lower is a large, framed photograph of Nichidatsu Fujii, the founder of Senji’s order.  Offerings are left on the altar: fruit, chocolate, other sweets. On each side of the main altar are statues of the seated Buddha, along with small pictures of deceased monks and other loved ones.

Senji came into the temple just before six o’clock, carrying a tray of tea cups. He placed the cups on the altar, and in front of the photos of the monks who are now gone. Ikaeda followed Senji inside. Senji turned on more lights, and lit two candles in front of the altar. He lit two sticks of incense and placed them in bowls.

Ikaeda  sat on a cushion in front of the signing bowl. The metal bowl is as big as a large laundry basket. When Ikaeda struck the bowl, it rang with a deep, mellow sound. From there Ikaeda went to great drum to pound out a steady rhythm . The drum sits on a wooden stand, and it nearly the size of a fifty-five gallon barrel. He struck the drum with wooden sticks that produced a booming beat, louder and deeper than that of a bass drum.

Senji and I sat on our cushions and hit our taikos, paddle-shaped drums that look a bit like badminton rackets. They sound like snare drums.

The chanting itself is very simple. We sang the words “Na Mu Myo Ho Ren Ge Kyo” over and over, in time with drumming. The chants are kind of a “call and response”. Senji is blessed with a deep baritone voice. He would chant first, and then Ikaeda  and I would reply with our tenors. We went back and forth, and back and forth.

Lani came in a little later. She is a Japanese neighbor. She took over the drumming from Ikaeda. Ikaeda grabbed a taiko and drummed with that, as he continued to chant. Lani’s alto voice blended with the chants coming from Ikaeda and me. Then Lani’s stepson, Yoshi, arrived at the temple. He also drummed and chanted.

This went on for almost an hour. Just “Na Mu Myo Ho Ren Ge Kyo” in a seemingly endless round. It does finally end. As in the beginning, the singing bowl rings. The drumming and chanting slow gradually. Then it all stops.

There is silence.

The chant is in my head. It will probably be in my dreams tonight. It is part of me.

Na Mu Myo Ho Ren Ge Kyo

(I asked Senji once what the words meant. He smiled and said, “You are love. You are beautiful. You are Buddha.”)

 

 

 

 

February 15th, 2018

I stumbled out of the Empire Builder after it pulled into King Street Station in Seattle. I was loaded down with a full backpack, a heavy shoulder bag, and a sleeping bag. Now that I was in Seattle, I needed to make my way to Senji’s temple, Nipponzan Myohoji Dojo. Senji had given me instructions how to find it. First, I needed to get Pier 52, so I could get on the ferry to Bainbridge Island. Senji had told me to go down King Street to 1st Avenue. After that I got a bit confused as to my next turn. Left or right on 1st  Avenue? I wandered into a small coffee shop to seek guidance from the locals.

A petite young lady greeted me from behind the counter. She had the customary piercing and tattoos that are typical of her generation.

She looked at me closely and said, “Nice beard. In the Rastafarian tradition, a long, dreaded beard is a sign of great wisdom.”

I shook my head. “Not this time. I’m lost. How do I get to Pier 52?”

The young woman looked puzzled. Another girl, a black co-worker, helped me out. She said, “It’s not far. Go down this street a couple blocks. You should see a pedestrian overpass. That goes to the pier.”

I sighed.

The first girl asked me, “You okay?”

“I’m a little tired.”

She  said cheerily, “You want some coffee?”

“No, I am already wired. Thanks anyway.”

I walked down the street past restaurants, shops, and homeless people. I decided to head to the water. I had to find the pier there. I did.

I bought my ticket to board the ferry. I had few minutes to wait. Eventually, the ferry docked and I climbed up to the passenger deck. I dropped my bags, and I stood on the aft deck of the boat. The ferry pulled away from the dock, and I watched the Seattle skyline recede away from me. I stood in the blowing wind and saw the churning waves of Puget Sound. It was truly beautiful. I loved it. I could have stood there forever. It was glorious.

The trip across the sound was brief. Soon I was off the ferry and trudging to the taxi stop at the end of the pier on Bainbridge Island. I texted Senji. No answer. I called him. No answer. This was no good.

It’s several miles from the ferry pier in Winslow to the temple. It is walkable. Karin and I walked to the church in Winslow during our late visit to Senji. However, I wasn’t weighed down lie a pack mule that time. I got some directions from a coffee vendor, and I started hiking toward Lynwood Center Road.

I had to go through downtown Winslow on my way to the Buddhist temple. Winslow reeks of money. It reminds me a lot of Carmel: cute little shops with specialty items to be sold at extravagant prices. Most people there looked wealthy and proud of it. Then there was me with my wandering hobo schtick. Needless to say, nobody offered me a ride. I might have gotten the interior of somebody’s Mercedes dirty. I am surprised that a cop didn’t stop me for vagrancy. Winslow has that rich liberal vibe to it. Lots of cool bumper stickers and lots of cold stares. The whole place screams: “You can’t afford to be here!”

I walked up and down steep hills, enjoying the scenery and gasping for breath. I stopped at an Episcopalian church to get my bearings. An old woman with ashes on her forehead (Ash Wednesday) spoke to me with apparent reluctance. She straightened me out. I continued my forced march. Then I saw Senji’s vehicle! He drives pale blue Ford Tempo built during the last century. He honked at me and hit the brakes.

Senji opened the passenger door and said to me,

“I am so sorry! I was on the phone and I didn’t get your message! I tried to call you, but you don’t answer your phone!”

“It’s okay. You’re here. I’m here. We’re good.”  I threw my bags into the rear seat of the Tempo.

“I am so sorry, Frank.”

I grabbed his shoulder and smiled, “We’re good. Thank you.”

He got me the rest of the way home.

Senji fed me and introduced me to his young padowan, Ikaeda. Ikaeda is a novice monk from Japan. He’s in training. He’s going to my buddy on the endless walk, starting tomorrow. We’re going to chant and drum, and go to strange new places. Ikaeda speaks almost no English, and I know zero Japanese.

This will be perfect.

I had planned on chanting with Senji and Ikaeda in the evening. Then I decided to lie down and close my eyes for just a moment. Well, I made it to the chanting service this morning.

Close enough.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

”

 

 

February 14th, 2018

I had forty-five hours in the train. I am still tired, even though I slept for twelve hours after I got to Senji’s temple. Riding coach on Amtrak is brutal in some ways. It is nearly impossible to get more than a short nap on the journey. The train stops frequently at remote locations: Columbus, WI, Minot, ND, Havre, MT, Drizzledikk, ID, etc…It is amazing to watch people get on the train at 3:00 AM in a raging blizzard. It is even more amazing to watch passengers de-train in similar conditions. Good Lord, what could possibly be of interest Devil’s Lake, North Dakota?

In all fairness, I have to say that the Amtrak cars were remarkably clean and seats were relatively spacious. I was fortunate to have an empty seat next to me, so I could spread out a bit. Food and drinks are expensive, but of good quality. The conductors and the attendants were unfailingly polite and helpful. Everybody on the train knew that we were going for a long haul, and they acted accordingly.

I don’t like to fly. Part of my aversion to flying is because it is too fast. I understand that doesn’t seem to make much sense, but I find flying to be disorienting. If I fly, I find myself in a radically different environment far too quickly. A train ride allows me to gradually adapt to new conditions. Even hours of gazing at the plains of North Dakota are useful to me. My mind and soul can catch up with the changes.

A train ride is good for savoring an experience. This is worth while even when the experience is not the most pleasant. Looking at the desolate, snow-covered moonscape of eastern Montana is unnerving, but fascinating in a bleak, depressing sort of way. It’s like being a bit player in Dr. Zhivago. I was grateful to be on a warm train.

Trains can be good for meeting new people, knowing that you will probably never see them again. There is a freedom in that. I could say whatever I wanted to say, and it didn’t matter  that much. I met Abe and Edna, an Amish couple from Columbus, WI. I met Larry, an Illinois dairy farmer. I met a retired Canadian teacher who had a strong opinion on every conceivable topic. I met a quiet young woman who had holes in all of her clothes. I met two ladies who were going skiing in Whitefish, MT. I had interesting conversations with some these folks. Others made it clear to me with their speech and body language that I should just go away.

There was lady sitting across the aisle from me during most of the trip. She was usually on the phone with her family in Everett. On the last evening of the journey, she left her seat for a while. I had been reading Crazy Clouds, a book about Zen masters, when she came back to her seat after going to the cafe.

She said to me, “Do you drink?”

“Say what?”

She asked again, “Do you drink?”

“Uh, yeah…”

“Will you have drink with me?”

“Well…”

“Come on, I don’t want to drink alone.”

I shrugged. “Okay.”

It was then that I noticed that she had purchased a bottle of wine and two shot bottles of vodka. I guess it was time for a party while the train rumbled through a blizzard in the Rockies (winds were up to 80 mph outside, and the train was actually forced to stop for a while).

The woman’s name was Yvonne. Her father was from Ghana and her mother was Filipino. Yvonne grew up near Seattle, but moved to North Dakota to work at a post office there. She had six sisters and an interesting history. We talked for a while, mostly about PTSD. Yvonne is starting a blog on the topic. One of her sisters works for the World Health Organization, and will help Yvonne with her project. We had a wide-ranging conversation, one that had been totally unexpected. I liked that. I also liked that she bought.

 

 

 

 

 

February 12th, 2018

Yesterday, Karin and I went the jail to see the one we love. In some ways it was a difficult experience for me because I won’t be able to visit the young woman for a while. We have at most ten minutes together each week, but those ten minutes are precious. I think the visits mean something to the girl. They mean something to me.

We spoke on the phone and looked at each other through the Plexiglas. The day prior to the visit had been the girl’s twenty-seventh birthday. I asked her how that was.

She gave me a hard look and said, “Well, it was better than last year’s birthday.”

Ouch. Last year at this time she was freezing on top of Bly Mountain in Oregon. She is still pissed about that adventure. It’s a long, ugly story. Too long to relate at this time.

“The other girls made me a birthday cake”, she told me with a hint of a smile.

“How did they do that?”

“They took a Honey Bun and put chocolate pieces and other candy on top.”

Just thinking about that made my pancreas hurt.

The girl continued, “They sang ‘Happy Birthday’ to me. It was nice. Later two of the girls got in trouble, and got sent to the ‘hole’ “.

“Is the ‘hole’ the same as solitary?”

She nodded.

“Ooooh, that’s no good.”

She nodded again.

Then the loved one said, “I bought myself a couple sodas and some coffee to celebrate my birthday. I haven’t slept in twenty-four hours.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I had the Honey Bun, a Mountain Dew, and Pepsi.”

“Sugar/caffeine high?”

She nodded and smiled.

She told me, “I finished reading It. That book was kind of slow. I like fast-paced books. It’s hard for me to concentrate on slow books because of my ADD. Are all his books like that?”

I said, “Yeah, for the most part. I think Stephen King’s best book is The Shining.”

She thought for a moment and said, “I think I saw the movie. Is that the one with that old guy in it?”

“You mean Jack Nicholson?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s the story.”

“I am reading Children of God now. That’s the sequel to The Sparrow. That is faster-paced. That book about Las Vegas went really fast.”

“Fear and Loathing? The book from Hunter S. Thompson? Of course that one is fast-paced. The guy was on speed the entire time he was writing it.”

She laughed.

Then she asked me, “When are you going on your walk?”

I told her, “Tomorrow.” (which is actually today).

I went on, “The guy in charge wants me to do media stuff for him.”

The girl gave me a hard stare and said, “Don’t get shot.”

That sounds like sage advice. I told her that I would avoid getting shot, and I would try not to get arrested this trip.

She seemed satisfied with my remarks.

A guard walked past her.

I asked, “Are we done?”

She nodded.

I blurted out, “I love you. I think about you all the time.”

She nodded.

 

February 12th, 2018

February 9th, 2018

I have been trying to get the hang of writing on a tablet. Up until quite recently, I had never used one. I never had the need to use one. However, seeing as I will be going across the country soon, and I have no idea of when I will return, I am learning to use the tablet. I have no choice.

I embrace new technology with great reluctance. Stefan finds my attitude to be hilarious. He roundly mocks my ignorance of the latest electronic means of communication. Actually, I am also ignorant about many older types of tech. It’s not that I can’t learn to use these tools; it’s more that I don’t really care. I have never taken a selfie. I only text when I need to do so.  I loathe Facebook. I just don’t understand the fascination with the magic screens.

That’s not entirely true. I am writing this blog on a computer, so I guess that I am grudgingly a member of the 21st Century. I’ve finally accepted that this is what I have to do in order to communicate in a certain population. There is no getting around it.

On Monday I am getting on a train and going to Seattle. God willing, I will arrive there on the morning of Ash Wednesday. On Friday, I need to be in Blaine, WA, to participate in the “Longest Walk 5.3”. You can look up their website if you want. The chairperson for the nearly endless walk (Blaine to Washington DC) is Bobby Wallace, and he has his heart set on me being his media guy. Wow. I’m not sure what he is thinking here. Either he has great (and unfounded) faith in my ability to communicate in writing, or he’s desperate. I can write. I know that. However, I’ve never had much interest in disseminating my work. Bobby want me to reach out to the world about this walk, and I’m not sure how to do that. He’s dragging me out of my comfort zone, and I find it it oddly amusing.

I have no worries that I will have a shortage of material for my writing. I expect that I will meet a wide variety of interesting people, and I expect that at least some of them will be thrilled to tell me their stories. I am looking forward to that. The truth is that I have met very few boring people in my life. Even those who seem to live a mundane existence still have some strange tales to tell. The problem is that usually nobody listens to them.

I am going into this enterprise with few expectations. I would have to actually know something to have expectations, and I don’t know much about this whole affair. Right now, there are lots of question marks. Somehow, that’s okay.

As Hunter S. Thompson said, “Pay the money. Take the ride.”

 

 

 

 

 

February 5th, 2018

Tom is gone. He wasn’t at morning prayer today. He won’t be there tomorrow either. Tom left the novitiate at St. Rita. He went back to his home in Michigan. Karin and I were friends with Tom. He told us last Thursday that he was leaving the Augustinians. We offered to take him out for dinner, but he had to be gone from the parish on Friday, and he had things yet to do.

Tom was one of six men assigned to St. Rita as part of their formation as priests and members of the Augustinian order. Novices spend a year at St. Rita, and then they get sent to schools in Chicago or San Diego. That is what happens, unless, like Tom, they decide that the religious life is not what they want. The other five novices are still at St. Rita. There is Spencer, from Oklahoma. There is Steve from Northern Ireland and Dave from England. Manny is from Pakistan and Ray is from New Mexico. I think that Tom was one of the youngest of the novices. Some of the men are older, with grey hair or no hair. Tom is athletic and solidly built. He always seemed to have a positive attitude, so it was a surprise to me that he decided to leave that path.

Tom told us that he was at peace with his decision to leave the novitiate. I was glad to hear that. It’s hard to leave that kind of a program. It reminded me a lot of when I was at West Point. “Christian formation” is sometimes defined as something that is “trans-formative not legalistic, and (it) requires attention to the interior life”. I think that the key word is “trans-formative”. A person going through a formation program to become a priest is being transformed. A person going through a program to become a military officer is also being transformed. In both instances the person is being trained intensively, and that individual acquires certain values. An Augustinian values God, love, and compassion. A West Pointer gets “duty, honor, country”. Some religious people would not necessarily describe my experience in the Army as “formation”, but that is actually what it was. I came out of the wormhole a very different person than how I went into it.

I told Tom that, whatever he decides to do, his time with the Augustinians will never be a waste. I mentioned to Tom that there is an author, Thomas Moore, who wrote Care of the Soul. Moore was in a monastic order as a young man, but then he left and he eventually became a Jungian analyst. Care of the Soul, along with his other books, are filled with ideas that Moore learned while living a religious life. Somebody once told Moore that he would always do the work of priest, even though he had never been ordained. I think that any formation experience leaves an indelible mark on the participant, regardless of how long the person went through the process.

Years ago, I went on a retreat at a Jesuit retreat center. A priest there told me that I would always be a soldier. I really didn’t want to hear that at the time. However, I think he was right. My time in the military is like a tattoo, or maybe a scar. It’s part of who I am, whether I like it or not. In some ways the experience makes me a better person. In some ways, not so much. I have spent decades trying to sort out the good from the bad. I am still trying to make peace with my history.

I wish Tom well. I did not get to know him for very long, but I am grateful for the little  time we shared. He’s a good man.

 

 

February 1st, 2018

I found a flyer at our church about a class at the Siena Retreat Center in Racine. The topic was “Slavic Spirituality”. That title intrigued me for a couple reasons. First, I had never before heard of of anyone discussing that topic. Second, being a descendant of Slavs myself, I wanted to know just what Slavic spirituality is in comparison to other types of spirituality. What would make the Slavic version unique?

I signed up for the class, and I showed up at the retreat center the next morning. The seminar lasted most of the day. I went into the class without expectations. I didn’t know what it would be like. I wanted to be surprised, and I was.

Claire Anderson was the group facilitator. I had a chance to speak to her before the program started. She has a ready smile, and she listens well. Despite her surname, Claire is of Polish ancestry. She’s lived in Poland, and has made frequent visits to the country. She has a doctorate in ministry, and she is the executive director of the retreat center. Generally, I am not impressed by degrees or by titles. I was impressed by Claire’s openness and her passion for the topic. She has very personal interest in Slavic culture and how that affects religious practice. I could feel the enthusiasm when I talked with her.

Claire started in the program in the usual manner: she had us sitting in a circle, and she asked each person to introduce themselves. Most of the group was made up of older women. There were only two men there. Most of the people were of Slavic descent, primarily Polish. We had two outliers: one woman was an artist, and her background was Dutch and Danish; the other was Sister Jaye, who has been painting Ukrainian Easter eggs for fifty years.

When it was my turn to speak, I told the members of the group that my people originally came from Slovenia. I joked that Slovenians are best know for feeling sorry for themselves. Slovenians have a kind of edgy moodiness that straddles the boundary between melancholy and clinical depression. Obviously, this is a gross generalization, but others in the group, including Claire, confirmed my assertion from their own experiences with Slovenians.

Slovenes may be an extreme example, but it seems to me that Slavs, overall, tend to go to the dark side. Slavs often dwell on the passion and suffering Christ. We spend a lot of time on Good Friday. Slavic literature, art, and music all have shades of sadness. Is there any Slavic music that is not in a minor key? There is always a sense of loss.

Why is that?

Claire categorized Slavic spirituality under the umbrella of “indigenous spiritualities”. That struck me as odd, but then she explained what she meant. “Indigenous spirituality draws from the cultural wisdom of a people”. That’s what she said. She also implied that this wisdom is ancient and somehow connected to a particular place. She commented that there are considerable academic resources available concerning Celtic spirituality,  African spirituality, Native American traditions, or the East Asian versions. However, there is almost nothing about the Slavs. In many cases, an indigenous spirituality is something that has at some point in history been repressed because the indigenous culture was dominated by another, stronger society. In short, an indigenous culture has had its ass kicked by somebody else for long period of time.

Were the Slavs oppressed? Yes, quite often. I heard a joke once that said that all German symphonies are in major keys, and all Russian symphonies are in minor keys. The Germans are always invading, and Russians get invaded. Could there be a connection? Different Slavic nations have spent centuries under the heels of Germans, Magyars, Turks, and Mongols. Yeah, the Slavs qualify as indigenous.

Claire’s presentation skimmed over the surface of a lot of different topics. This was necessary. There was simply too much material to cover in depth. Claire came up with some basic characteristics of Slavic spirituality. It is nature-based. There is a sense of cosmic harmony and order. Solidarity is more important to the Slavs than the exaggerated individualism of the West. Ritual is omnipresent. Life is viewed in terms of the cycle of the seasons. There is a strong feminine aspect. Ancestors are considered part of the present, as well as part of the past. Everything is interconnected.

Claire had set up eight stations throughout the room in order to give concrete meaning to the spiritual aspects of daily life. She assigned each station to a certain point in the year: a station for each equinox and each solstice, and a station for each midpoint between a solstice and an equinox. There was a station concerning rituals and celebrations at the spring equinox (Easter eggs, flowers, that sort of thing). Christmas rituals were part of the station for the winter solstice. A harvest motif was set up for the autumn equinox. Each time of the year has its own particular meaning, its own message for the human soul.

The pattern of the stations reminded me of my time with the Waldorf School. The people there made a great effort to incorporate the cycle of the seasons into the life of the students. There were different festivals and events during the year. I remember the May Pole on May Day (a day equidistant between he spring equinox and the summer solstice). We celebrated Michelmas, the feast of St. Michael, which happens to near the fall equinox. We carried homemade lanterns on Martinmas, the feast of St. Martin, which is at the beginning of November, equidistant between the fall equinox and the winter solstice. All these events keep a person in tune with the earth and the cosmos. These things keep a person grounded in reality.

Ir struck me, as made our tour of Claire’s stations, that Slavic spirituality is intuitive. There isn’t a lot of logic or reasoning involved. It is a heart spirituality, as opposed to being all in the head. It is experiential: rituals, devotions, pilgrimages, special meals, and visits to shrines. There are blatant superstitions involved, but sometimes superstitions are truths that can only be understood in a non-verbal, symbolic level. I was deeply touched by some of what we saw and said, and I don’t know why. Somehow it resonated.

At the end of the seminar, we all had a chance to say what we thought and felt about it. I had more questions at the end of the day than I had at the beginning. That’s probably a good thing. I guess the basic questions are: “What am I?” Why am I who I am?”

What gives me my piece of a Slavic spirituality? Is it the culture, the language, the climate, or is it part of my DNA? How deep does it all go? How much of this history do I pass on to our children? How much of it do we know? How much can we know?

Claire needs to have another class.