Category: silence

MOON WHISPERS

Rev. Dr. Kate Winters, “Dwelling in Presence,” January 2, 2024

We have skylights in our house, two in the dining room and one in the kitchen. Aside from the brightness they add, my favorite thing about them is walking in the darkness before dawn into the the kitchen when my eyes are suddenly flooded with moonlight. I didn’t know how powerful the light of the moon was until it came laser-like through the ceiling the first night I slept in this house. That time it was a full moon taking me totally off-guard. This morning it is a half moon shining in the window of my hermitage room bright enough to help me write in my journal.

Dwelling in presence as I am wont to do, especially in the early morning hours, the world outside tends to whisper to me. Sometimes it is just the whisper of silence. I bow to 16th century priest and mystic John of the Cross who said that “Silence is God’s first language.” It is deep, unfathomable, and full of mystery. It can also be soft, comforting, and full of peace. On days of inner turmoil, silence seems to cover me like a calming blanket.

This morning, the winter birds break that silence with familiar voices. First it was the cardinals, who seem to get up almost as early as I do. Now it is the doves, the finches, and chickadees. Often the crows arrive by about now, but they must be sleeping in. That’s okay with me for their whispers are not nearly as pleasant, often sounding like a big rambunctious family in the middle of a squabble.

Then there is the distinct whisper of the air. No matter how cold it is, I always crack my window open to meet the day. It makes me feel closer to my outdoor kin, even though my right shoulder freezes a little bit. Sometimes the air blows in with a “whoosh” and other times it creeps in silently, caressing me with the lightest of touches. It feels like a quiet blessing, that silent God speaking.

The moonlight has just been overtaken by the sun rising on the opposite side of the house. With it, the squirrels have come to pester the birds on the apple tree feeder. The mourning doves, nine of them in all, are unmoved and continue their breakfast activity beneath. I notice that with the sun, there is a different quantity and quality of sound outside. Two seagulls are flying over calling to one another and the doves just took off as one with their particular noisy flap of feathers. Less whisper now. Ah, and here come the crows!

I had a thought this morning that I don’t fully understand. As I read and reflect more about aging these days, I am feeling a stronger connection with the moon. Something about being struck by the moonlight on the way to morning coffee feels different than being jarred awake by the sun. Aging has a very different kind of radiance than the growing up years. If anyone has any thoughts about this, I’d love to read them. Until then I’ll be writing every morning in my journal by the moon, listening to creation’s whispers. 

      

   

SUNDAY MORNING

Rev. Dr. Kate Winters, Dwelling in Presence, July 16, 2023

We are immersed in fog once again. This morning, I am going to sink right into it. Seems there is nothing else to do this summer. What a difference from last year when every Sunday morning was a marathon of activity. Editing our sermons, putting finishing touches on the service, picking up a treat for the children’s message, getting Joel to choir on time, and into the sanctuary by ten. The most restful part was when the service began with the Tibetan bell. That’s the part I miss. I always felt right at home leading a community in prayer with Joel, looking out at all the beloved faces.

Things are different now. Now on Sunday mornings we first decide if and where to go to church. It’s often weather-determined. It is interesting going from presider to first-time attendee. We’ve visited six different churches so far, a few more than once. I’ve learned that most of them feel very similar going in for the first time – many folks reach out to welcome us. It’s at coffee hour afterwards where you can get a better individual vibe of the community. See the interaction. Find if you are left standing alone or invited into the conversation. Notice how comfortable the kids are. And, for Joel, what kind of treats are offered! I’m the one who goes straight for the coffee.

Of course, first the individual services send out strong and important impressions – is there life? Laughter and tears as well as read words? Silence as well as exuberant singing? Is it truly prayer directly to God, or as my friend Linda bemoans, is it all sermon? Do I feel the Spirit? Has anything happened that wove us together as one or are we walking out as separate as we did coming in? And yes, did the message bring both grace and challenge? (Whew, I’m glad I didn’t have me as a former pastor walking into one of our services!)

Though I know I have received a lot from these various church services, I know that it is what you bring in, how you participate, and what you give that blesses the experience and makes it whole. Honestly, I have yet to feel as if I have much to give. If you’ve been following this blog, you already know I’ve been feeling peculiarly empty of me lately. It seems I did not take fully into account what the bypass surgery immediately following retirement would do to me.

But this morning, thanks to a new subscriber to the blog, I am feeling deep gratitude. She included in her message a poem by Jeff Foster. I quote the last few lines:

If you want to do nothing, let yourself do nothing today.

Feel the fulness of the emptiness, the vastness of the silence,

the sheer life of your unproductive moments.

Time does not always have to be filled

You are enough simply in your being.

Thank you, Pat C. You may not know that my first plan for retirement was to enter three months of silence. I was wanting to “feel the fulness of the emptiness” and the “vastness of the silence.” My heart event changed my plans. Or did it? I may just be resisting learning in this new way – to the rhythm of a plan not my own.