Uncategorized – Dwelling in Presence

Autumn Longing

September 26, 2027

Last year as summer faded into autumn, I wondered how many of these seasons I had left. I have always reveled in the fall, the time to pull out my brown Chilean poncho which still carries a light scent of the wood fires Joel and I built in Rangeley to roast our hot dogs. Those were times of pure happiness for me. Joel might pull out his harmonica, one time starting a moose stampede (can you have a stampede of two?) toward us. We’ve called him the “moose whisperer” ever since. We would sit around that fire until stars filled the sky and even the woolen poncho let in the evening chill.

How I mourn that particular cabin, called the “Honeymoon Cabin,” in which we used to stay. It was smaller than the others on the lake and sat up on the hill, which allowed us to watch the moose arrive before dawn. They would kneel with their back ends sticking straight up in the air to eat their morning repast, looking for all the world as if they were praying. The first time I saw it, I fell in love with them. They are the goofiest looking animals I’ve ever encountered. But the first time a gigantic bull moose stuck his head out of the woods next to my car window, I knew I should never get too close!

That little cabin in the woods is what I long for this time of year. My mind rested there. Part of it was because all it had inside were the bare essentials (except for the big jetted tub, which may also be why it was called the Honeymoon), but the essentials were all we needed. From the moment I rose, made coffee in the old Mr. Coffee drip pot, and found a candle to light on the wooden table beneath the windows, I was in my element. I needed nothing more than a pen, my journal, and the shadows of the kneeling moose outside.

Sadly, much of the environment changed when the new owners of the camp that included our cabin started building. A two-story house went up between the honeymoon cabin and the lake. When Joel and I saw it, we were devastated. We have yet to find another place to escape to. Almost every day now I think about how to simplify our own home so that it contains only the essentials. Of course, living with someone who tends to hold onto things complicates the matter. But as I look around this room that’s been designated as mine, he is not the only one. The problem is how does one determine which pile of books is not essential?

So here I am as the trees turn once again into torches of flame. Perhaps they can teach me how to let go as they drop their leaves – let go of my longing for that cabin and let go of anything that keeps my home from feeling like it did, a sanctuary for simplicity, silence, joy, and wonder. I can always brew the coffee, light a candle, and find a way to put a wooden table under a window to write on. Maybe I’ll ask Joel to keep the harmonica since there is still a potential for a moose to come strolling out of the woods in the backyard!

UNEXPECTED SWEETNESS

September 14, 2026

Rev. Dr. Kate Winters

I harvested two more tomatoes from a decrepit looking plant today. While the leaves and stems were desiccated, the fruit was bright red having been somehow nourished by the stalwart plant that insisted on putting forth its bounty. I wanted to take them right inside and make a sandwich so that I could claim that old and worn-out plants could offer the yummiest fruit! Then I could imagine that the same could be said for humans. Can you tell – I’m feeling old. Old and nonproductive. The plant gave me hope.

But oh, what a day it is! While sitting out on the back deck I am reveling in the wind – strong, cool, and causing the tall trees in the woods to sway in time with the flowers in the garden. It is one of those days in which all of nature is announcing its vibrant presence, dancing its joy and singing its exuberance. The cirrus clouds are floating across the sky at a good pace while the blue surrounding them hints of contentment and peace.

Joel just returned from an errand and told me he thinks that the hummingbirds and the butterflies are gone for the year. Just as he returned inside, two butterflies, one monarch and perhaps a fritillary, flew down into the zinnia patch, and a lady hummingbird fought the wind to position itself on the feeder. At the same time, a bumblebee nearly as big as my thumb, went from bloom to bloom in the purple phlox and a dragonfly zoomed by. I have never been all that fond of flying insects, but I am starting to love these little creatures that brighten the garden as they help it to thrive. Joel has been sending them loving energy for years. Perhaps that is what keeps them populating our yard.

As I rest in all the beauty of this late summer afternoon, I think again about those dry old tomato plants. They are still bearing fruit because that is what they are created to do. It is not always easy to know what we human types are meant to do, especially in our later lives. But as another butterfly finds shelter from the wind in the phlox, it may be that it is no more complicated than that. We can seek shelter and nourishment in the wonder of all of creation. Should anything ripen inside of us, despite our condition of aging, we can still offer it to the world. In fact, it is that very condition that can lead us to novel discovery. We may find an unexpected and delightful sweetness.

MILESTONE

September 4, 2026

Rev. Dr. Kate Winters

For those of us who haven’t had children, it is easy to lose track of the passage of time. Having not closely observed an infant become a toddler become a kindergartner become an adolescent and so on, we are not watching closely how time is changing us. We seem to somehow “remain the same.” Years go by and we are shocked by the cards wishing us a happy 50th or 60th and beyond! I did not get a happy 70th birthday card this year. Perhaps my friends were trying to shield me from the shock.

My sister, who has a grandchild now in college, has been eased (my word) into age another way, by marking the milestones of her four granddaughters. As she ages, she has so many events to celebrate with them that life changes are marked by parties (she throws a good one!) and not by added wrinkles and aching joints. She and my other dear siblings with children seem to stay young along with them. I, on the other hand, have done so by denial.

That is until the last three and a half years. Since when have I started to count in half years again? Does this trait of the very young resurface when we get old? (I fought putting a “very” in front of the old there!) All of a sudden, the half years have meaning again. I think it started at 69. I was inching toward the next birthday and wanted to drag it out as long as possible. Well, it’s a year later and I realize it doesn’t really work. Seventy and a half years old might as well be seventy-one, both somewhat alarming to me.

Between three and four years ago, I retired from full-time pastoral ministry, the first personal milestone celebrated in a long time. But unlike other benchmarks, this one felt an ending more than a beginning. Within two months, my body broke down leading to three serious surgeries, but thanks to good medical care, Joel’s love, and God’s presence, I am still here. So instead of being alarmed by the number on the birthday card, I am truly grateful.

Last week, Joel and I saw a beautiful documentary about poet Mary Oliver entitled “Saved by the World.” It brought to mind one of her most quoted lines: “Tell me what it is you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” I was reminded that life isn’t any less wild and precious at seventy than it is at ten or twenty or more. In fact, the richness of my days continues to deepen as I attend to and drink in the creation around me. Life has just as much if not more mysterious beauty in it as it had before. Perhaps this is a milestone worth celebrating. Maybe I’ll throw a party!

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First of September

A soft breeze is blowing on this first day of September and the birds are celebrating. There has been a veritable feast of bird behavior in the last half hour as I’ve been quietly observing from my screen tent. My Merlin app is engaged on the phone. In the last half hour, nineteen varieties have made themselves heard. Not a record, I’ve had more than thirty in that amount of time before, but a respectable showing.

The feisty hummingbirds are still with us. For the first time, I saw a little female divebomb a sparrow that got too close to the phlox that she was trying to take a drink from. It’s hard to imagine there would be much nectar in the little phlox flower, but that neon pink color may be too hard to ignore. She would get a much more satisfying drink from the brightly blooming zinneas, but then she’d have to share with the various visiting butterflies and bumblebees.

Many of the birds seem to be coming in pairs today. As I was watching two house finches vying for the small birdbath on the deck railing, I heard a sound to my left. A downy woodpecker had landed on the screen next to me! I’ve never seen one from this angle before. He was holding on and pecking at what seemed to be a tiny hummingbird feather caught there. Perhaps he thought it was an insect. I was thrilled by his proximity. In any case, I greeted him and he soon flew away.

It is one of those days that I can’t help but bring to mind Mary Oliver’s rule of life. “Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.” Paying attention in my own backyard astonishes me constantly. I think I could add a fourth instruction: “Know you are blessed.” For I do.

Simple Thoughts

August 5, 2026

Rev. Kate Winters

Hummingbird chatter and the flapping of wings of all kinds encircle me. It is an active morning in the garden. If I wasn’t sitting in the screen tent, I’d have to be ducking the zooming little hummers as they chase each other toward and away from the sugar water. Just now, a song sparrow nearly collides with one of these flying torpedoes. It’s a traffic danger zone out here.

The sun is gaining strength and we are in for a few hot days. Hot for the coast of Maine anyway, on either side of ninety. A purple finch splashes in one of Joel’s birdbaths while the water is still cool. In a few hours, I’ll have to retreat inside where the blessings come not in feathers, but in heat pumps. I am beginning to appreciate the summer, now that I have a way to retreat from the heat and humidity.

As a pileated woodpecker flies overhead, I give thanks for all this life around me as I’ve been having a few rough years. People have assumed its because of all my hospitalizations and surgeries, three in three years. That may be part of it, but thanks to Joel’s loving care I’ve dealt with those pretty well. Leaving The First Church in Belfast after nearly two decades was not easy, so much of my life’s energy and love were spent there. But honestly, I was ready for a slower pace. Fortunately, I could bring the favorite part of my ministry with me – Joel and I continue preach and lead services when requested around the state. We still make a lively team, and in this challenging time in our country, I am grateful that I can still have a voice.

The difficulty has been about not really having a focus for my life. My first thought was to do research through life stories on the spiritual formation and development of elders. And yes, that idea still engages me, but without a plan or structure, or way to engage the population, I seem to flounder. Now, I know I could create all this, but I also admit I fear getting in over my head. I so love these quiet mornings with my avian friends. Do I really want to become a public person again? At this point, no one is looking for or trying to contact me. What peace! When I was very young, my most joyful moments were spent sitting alone where I spent summers on a stone outcropping in the woods next to the babbling brook just breathing in the spirit. Solitude has always fed my peace and helped me to feel at home.

My childhood dream in Brooklyn was to grow up to become a nun. Part of it was about my love for God, but I think I was most attracted to the idea of a semi-cloistered life. I would have my simple room, my books, my desk and bed, hopefully a window, and as much silence as I wanted. I could pray, read, think, and study, to my heart’s content. I didn’t feel guilty about that then as I often do now.

Of course, if I cloistered myself now, it would have to be with Joel. He would probably never be home, he is invested and involved in so many things. All in all, we balance each other out well. A question, have any of you written a “rule of life” for yourself? If so, would you share it? I think that needs to be the next step on this journey of mine.

New Start

Rev. Dr. Kate Winters

It has been a while since I’ve written these reflections. I stopped blogging a while ago, but after our trip to Wisconsin and conversations with dear friends, I decided it’s time for a new beginning. Just because I’m not sure I am “doing enough,” doesn’t mean that I should stop doing what I love. And I love to write.

June 26, 2026

The rain is falling gently this morning. My soul is quiet inside. I’m being visited by numerous songbirds and am happy to let them do all the singing. Once in a while, a devious bluejay lets out a squawk waking me out of my reverie. S/he doesn’t want me to get too comfortable.

Sometimes I think that the birds partner me in my work of the morning. For is not the divine spark inside them as well? As if to answer, two vivid red birds appear on the feeder outside my window. Who else but God could have mixed that color? The lady cardinal follows. Softer in shade, she is my favorite. She and the lovely little chickadee who will occasionally allow me to feed her from my hand.

When the tiny feet of the chickadee grasp hold of my finger, it is like nothing I’ve ever felt. It is a magnificent act of trust and I am so honored to have it bestowed upon me. It doesn’t happen that often lately, so it doesn’t get old. In fact, I am finding it a fruitful practice of contemplative meditation. I fill my hand with sunflower seed, still my thoughts, open my heart, and make myself available for whatever, whoever, lights upon me. It helps to rest the open hand on a stable surface such as a porch railing, lest the body lack the stamina to persist.

My grandfather, my Popa, taught me this, although he placed the seed right on top of his stark white crewcut. There they stood out perfectly, and the chickadees seemed to trust his head immediately! I’m sure it had to do with his gentle spirit and love of nature. The vibrations coming from him must have been most inviting. Having grown up in the city, I am still a little timid where nature is concerned. The birds, however, are winning me over. The birds and the fireflies. More on them to come later…

LAST POST: A TOUCH OF HEAVEN

Rev. Dr. Kate Winters, “Dwelling in Presence,” February 9, 2024

A shooting star greeted me as I opened the back door to the deck this very early morning. First, I took in a quick breath of surprise and wonder. Taken unawares, I experienced beauty and blessing. Second, when my brain started to engage, I realized that in that flash of a moment with the tiny trail of light, I actually accomplished what makes me, and all of us, most human. Out of this random encounter, I made meaning.

Think about it. I don’t know where the light came from or what it actually was. It could have been a tiny speck flung from a meteor across the galaxy. It could also have been a piece of space junk falling down to earth, entering our atmosphere. But what do we commonly call these things? Falling stars, shooting stars, signs of good luck. Some of us make wishes on them, feeling an unusual power in the sighting. Some simply stare in awe, waiting for another touch of heaven to descend. In any case, this is an event that does not go unnoticed and unmarked, but somehow changes us at the same time that we make our own meaning of it.

As for me, I felt my heart fill with light and gratitude. It was a sign of something that I’ve learned more surely as I have written this blog in my first year of retirement. Staying present, or “dwelling in presence,” brings not only meaning, but joy to our nights and days, dawns and twilights. To know blessing, we must be ready to receive it, open and aware, even in the midst of triple bypasses and pain. Every bit of life is precious. In every second is meaning to be found. We only need to open doors to the darkness, feel the cold air on our skin, and catch the falling star. Amen.

Note: This is the last post for “Dwelling in Presence.” I will seek another way to connect with myself and you! Thank you for taking this year-long journey with me.

UN-CENTERING PRAYER

Rev. Dr. Kate Winters, “Dwelling in Presence,” February 8, 2024

Why is it that I feel free to write almost anything personal, sensitive, and embarrasing about most things except when it comes to my spiritual life? Why do I think that somehow that must be kept secret? As if somehow I am violating God or myself if I go there? But, wait a minute, my hope is that my spiritual life spills out all over the page whenever I write!. It certainly is not separate from my everyday world. Everything I experience is shaped by that wide and deep horizon.

So what do I keep to myself? Uh oh…here I go…challenging myself, so here it is. It is about my prayer life, or to be more specific, my attempts at a Centering Prayer life. For those who don’t know, centering prayer is a Christian version of meditation meant to lead to contemplation written extensively about by Father Thomas Keating, Cynthia Bourgeault, and Martin Laird among others in contemporary times. I say Christian version because every recognized major religion has a practice that is meant to lead to some kind of union with what is understood as ultimate reality. And honestly, I haven’t gotten there.

Yes, I have tried different methods of meditation, and I might even make a passable Buddhist. But at the moment, I am following the sage advice of the Dalai Lama who advises that instead of jumping from one path to another trying to find what “works” for you, it is best to return to one’s own tradition and commit deeply to it. There is already some kind of foundation for one there. I remember my beloved New Testament professor at Yale Divinity School, Luke Timothy Johnson, saying close to the same thing adding. ”We all meet at the same center.” And I trust these two implicitly. So for about eight months I have returned (I admit I’ve been here before) to the practice of Centering Prayer.

Let me tell you what I think the problem is. I have the quiet, the open time, and the supportive environment to delve into the silence. My phone provides the timer, complete with Tibetan bells, to get me started. But then I am tripped up in the very simple, one would think simple, centering prayer word. The practice teaches us to choose a word or a brief phrase to return to if your mind cannot quiet down and gives you too many thoughts or images to truly center oneself in silence.

Many choose the Jesus prayer (“Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me”) or the simple name, “Jesus”, or another word like “grace” or even “help.” The word itself is less important than its function as a way to return oneself to the silence. I would hate to tell you how many words and phrases I have chosen to help me silence my mind. It can take only ten seconds into my twenty minute session when my mind starts questioning, then fighting, with my prayer word.

I am supposed to simply note my thoughts, but not engage or converse with them, and let them go. Return to the prayer word. Use it to keep my mind busy until the silence returns. But as soon as I return to the prayer word itself, the cycle continues… ”Why this word? It doesn’t feel right. I can’t synchronize it with my breath. Is there a better word for me?” I can see Father Keating shaking his head from beyond! Certainly I settle down in the session, but decide to try a different word, or phrase, next time.

I know there are people who use the same word for years and years. Cynthia Bourgeault said she does in one of her books on Centering Prayer. I have wondered if there are others like me who struggle with it. Perhaps it has to do with my life-long love of words and the desire to use the right one at the right time. I’ve considered asking someone else to just give me a word. But who am I kidding? The same process would begin and I would berate myself again. What does all this tell me about myself? That I do not trust the practice? That I am a self-defeating perfectionist or a control freak? That I might want to go back to the breath or substitute an image, a candle flame for example, for the word? But I seem to do best with my eyes closed. See, I am fighting already!

Okay, if anyone can relate, I’d love to hear from you. As for now, I will just let my embarrassment be. I am still longing deeply for God. It is what and who I am. That’s got to count for something, doesn’t it? By the way, near the end of today’s meditation, I somehow tripped over a word. I don’t know where it came from. It could be heaven sent, for with it, my mind went silent. Have I found my word? Please pray for me tomorrow!

ROOTS AND BRANCHES

Rev. Dr. Kate Winters, “Dwelling in Presence,” January 30, 2024

The half moon gives a gentle luminessence to the snow outside my window this morning. As it flows through the branches of the crab apple tree, it appears to etch dark roots on the ground. The tree appears whole to my eyes – roots, trunk, branches. I think moonlight is good for seeing things whole, helping me to remember that my life is grounded in so much more than I can see in the moment. My own shadow in the moonlight always takes me unawares, as do some of my most deeply buried memories. In the moonlight, they appear as roots.

Today I am grateful for these roots, my mother Ann and my father Jack, whose spirits run through me as sure as their blood. My mother’s surfaces as joy, humor, and heart; my father’s as achievement, responsibility, and soul. How I would love to have this conversation with them, but perhaps in this mystical moonlight, I am.

As I go now to make another cup of coffee, I am reminded that I share many of these root spirits with my sisters, coffee lovers all. Sue even made up a great little song she sings to us sometimes – “Oh yes, it’s coffee time! It’s really coffee time!” (Think “Ta ra ra Boom de ay!) I’m not the only song writer!

Other roots spring to mind. My earliest childhood friends: Marie, with whom I wanted to become a nun and enter the convent, Ernie, my first boyfriend who started my trend away from that idea, and Katherine, who lived two doors down, but whose home was like my own. I see Stella, her mother’s face, in my mind, and feel the love shining from it. I was a happy, if somewhat serious child. Then there was Sister Joseph from Holy Family School, who I was fortunate to have as teacher in both second and fifth grades, the First Communion and Confirmation years. I can still feel the warmth of her habit as she wrapped her cloak around me against the cold at a church festival. I felt special and blessed.

The Catholic church was really a tale of opposite environments for me. One of exclusion and rejection as a girl/woman, one of affirmation and encouragement as a student/child of faith. It awakened in me both a passionate love and a deep despair. Kind of similar, I surmise, to an abusive marriage relationship. I understand why wounded women don’t get out sooner. Such a mix of emotions. As far as the church is concerned, it took me just over forty years.

While the institution was such a conundrum for me, a root that both fed me and withheld its nourishment, some of my most healthy connections were with people I encountered whose roots were planted within it as well. Father Richard Schoenherr who after one of the sermons I preached in Madison just looked into my eyes and said “You are priest,” and his wife, Judith, said “You are friend.” Both had a powerful healing effect on my soul.

Father Henri Nouwen, renowned spiritual teacher and writer, both helped me find my vocation when I read his Out of Solitude as a junior in college and continued to inspire me as teacher at Yale Divinity School, but also confirmed for me in subtle ways that it would not be as a Catholic yearning for approval as a spiritual woman. In hindsight, I think he was struggling with demands on his time as well as his sexual identity (which he has since written about) which I took as a discomfort with women, meaning me, and was hurt by it. However, I will always be grateful for the fire he lit inside me for ministry and solitude. One of my deepest roots for sure, he died in 1996, but I still can hear his wonderful Dutch accent when I read his work!

I am also grateful to Henri because thanks to my strugle with him, I had some wonderful encounters with my advisor at the seminiary, Sr. Dr. Margaret Farley, RSM. She helped me through some tumultuous feelings as well as giving me a vision of what women could become even in the Catholic church if they trusted their gifts. She was the most brilliant woman I had ever met as well as one of the most loving. An Ethicist by calling, Margaret was instrumental in helping me dismantle the male God in my head, the one I had projected onto certain flesh and blood men in my life. She planted in me the desire to facilitate that for other women.

Well, this is enough for today. I know I will write again soon because as of February 11th this blog will cease to be. I cannot sustain it on our retirement income. But I am going to try to find another way to connect, perhaps a Facebook page. This blog has gotten me through a pretty challenging year and I’m grateful for it. One of the branches springing from the roots!

SILENCE AS HOME

Rev. Dr. Kate Winters, “Dwelling in Presence,” January 26, 2024

Tiny snowflakes are flying gently by on this Friday morning. They are almost too small to see. But they are a harbinger of more to come, at least according to the forecast. I begin the day with a sense of deep peace. This is my favorite kind of day. Nothing on my calendar and a lovely snowfall to enjoy outside my window as I burrow under blankets with books to read and time to write. And there’s Joel in the next room getting ready to feed his birds. I hope he keeps on his big brown hooded terry robe. It suggests that our St. Francis statue in the garden has come to life. Sometimes Joel does seem like St. Francis reincarnated. That is until he watches a Green Bay Packers game. Then we both allow ourselves to get a little loud and crazy. But not today. Today is a day for joyful silence.

It may have been a blessing that I was unable to begin my retirement with three months of silence as I had planned. Imposed silence (even if by myself) might have skewed my relationship with it. As it is now, on a day like today the silence feels like my true home. It doesn’t have to be continuous. In fact, there is something delicious about being able to return to it after a day has been too scheduled and noisy. Then I feel embraced by the silence, even as I am challenged to learn the mysteries and the wisdom within it. There is just an endless depth to silence that I am constantly drawn to. I’m learning more and more what Meister Eckhart meant when he claimed that nothing is “so much like God as silence.”

I wonder if this romance began in my childhood when I would go alone into our big city church and the heavy wooden doors closed behind me. Space and time were transfigured as wax, incense smells, and filtered light combined with the sudden hush from the traffic outside to create a truly mystical sanctuary. I’m sure I didn’t know the word “mystical” then, but I knew the experience. In that space, I felt an inexplicable presence that I could rest in.

I know a lot of people have rejected the Roman Catholocism they were born into. But I know I was also given great gifts by that tradition. It truly nurtured in me a “felt” sense of God. I grew up with a bodily sense of the holy, a sacramental view of life and creation, and all the joy it conferred over my lifetime. And, of course, it nurtured my love for silence. I am finding that silence loves me back.