The Home Altar

In my personal practice this week, I’m sitting with the fascinating confluence of celebrations and solemn remembrances in my geographic, cultural, and religious contexts. In some ways, this past week, with its unseasonably warm and Spring-like weather, is a fantastic example of this juxtaposition of themes and embodied experiences. Even as I was relishing the long walks in the sunshine on dry sidewalks (with thanks to St. Brigid and a certain immortal/undead rodent in central Pennsylvania for ushering in the Spring), I was experiencing discomfort and worry in my body and my emotions.

After all, it’s not even Valentine’s Day here in the North Country of the eastern United States, and Winter here can hold us in its grasp until April. Signs of life and reminders of dying are the hallmarks of this moment, and it summons me to a new attentiveness and desire to sort out in my body and soul how to be present to these overlapping realities.

In the broader culture, folks in the United States are preparing to virtue signal by either watching or not watching our present day gladiator games and posting punny photos of some Superb Owls.

This will be paired with the other final winter festival of Valentine’s Day, a saccharine celebration of romance and romantic love on Wednesday. Taken with a light heart and a sense of spiritual detachment, these too can be occasions for celebration with friends, family, and dear ones as a form of gentle resistance to the perpetual commercialization of festival.

In my own liturgical practice, I note that Sunday and Wednesday are overlaid with feast and fast respectively, in one case revealing the miraculous and transformed that is present alongside the ordinary, and in the other, reminding participants that they are impermanent and are most certainly going to die.

The little season of time after Epiphany ends with the story of Transfiguration, where a select few witnesses see incomprehensible glory pouring forth from the body and presence of Jesus. In this mystical encounter we see threads of unity in the midst of a world of division. The Hebrew Scriptures as represented by Moses (Law/Torah) and Elijah (Prophets/Nevi’im) engage in profound and soul stretching conversation with Jesus as his own followers tremble in awe. Like a breath of early spring, with its petrichor essence wafting in the air, we are reminded that life, love, oneness, and holiness shine through, even in the seeming ordinariness of the moment.

The solemn season of Lent begins on Wednesday, with a summons to prayer, almsgiving, and fasting. We are invited to offer up our time to Divine presence within and around, our resources in generosity and solidarity to the divine presence embodied in the neighbor, and our deep seated attachments in a spirit of gratitude and trusting attachment to God. These little acts of giving our lives away with sincere openness are sealed by palm ashes that remind us of our current and our future dying.

In my own practice, I’ve just begun to grapple with the embodied awareness of death and mortality. I’ve been cognitively aware of death since childhood, and know the grief of many layers of loss, from beloved pets, to dear friends and companions (indeed, Wednesday marks the 5th anniversary for one of these losses), and even the loss of a parent. I’ve accompanied dozens of people through the death and dying process as well as offering the bereavement care for their loved ones. I’ve known that I will die for quite some time, though I’m in no hurry to do so. It wasn’t till this past year that I had my first moment of the voice of wisdom bubbling up from within, “there will be a moment when I am not, and that will be okay”. I can honestly recognize that this bodily awareness came upon me quite unintentionally, felt profoundly different than the flight or freeze response of considering or feeling the fear of death.

I recognize this now as a hallmark of the safety I experience in my practice and my sense of connection to the Holy One and Source of all whose love in this very moment surpasses all my illusions of permanency and schemes for the future. I also realize that this is a sign of metabolizing the losses, fear and grief I have experienced along the way. I am not a fatalist, simply wishing to dissociate by thinking happy thoughts between now and my end, or now and the end of the human experiment on Earth. I am called to love and care for myself here and now, even as there will be a day when “I am not” in a very real sense. I am called to love and care for our mother Earth and the many creatures who call it home.

The illusion I let go of is that my only choices are reactive freezing/fawning, i.e. being stuck in the immense inescapable nature of the crisis, or reactive fighting/fleeing, i.e. trying to bring about a new future through force or retreat to an isolated safe harbor. I have a choice to be present and to embrace the wisdom of mortality, and the love that shines through it. I can settle my body, my nervous system, my spiritual core, and see what this grace-filled, more spacious consciousness can offer, not only to me, but my companions in this wandering.

This is why I will practice this week, because I need to know that I am one of the people I will grieve before my life is over, and that will be a sign that through the unfolding wisdom of God, I will be one of the people I learned to love before my life is over.

Practice:

Take some time to anchor yourself in the safety and care of the present moment. Attune to your breathing, be aware of your body and where it sits in space. Scan your body to look for any discomfort or pain and adjust your posture if needed. Offering loving attention to your tender points.

Once you’re situated, call to mind someone you love who has died. Feel free to imagine them in any way that helps them to feel gently and safely present. If a big feeling comes up, don’t distract yourself or rush ahead in thinking, just give yourself time to experience the sensations and emotions and let them express themselves.

Make a note of some things that ended when they died and that you miss. Don’t dwell on any one of them, just observe what comes up. Once a few things have come to mind, move your attention to ways you love them and that their love and life still affects you today.

If at any time you feel unsafe, return to your breath, open your eyes and scan your environment slowly. Let yourself know you are safe.

If you’ve been able to stay with these reflections, thank the person you love and wish them well.

Once that’s complete, take a moment to consider what you will miss about yourself when you die. Try to stay focused on things you appreciate about you. If you’ve come up with a few things, wonder about some ways that your love and legacy will be embodied by others and give thanks that you can share such gifts. Take a moment to thank the Divine for the gift of you.

Reconnect to your breath and your present surroundings. Slowly scan your environment. You may want to take some time to journal about your experience or process what you noticed with a trusted listener.

Be gentle with yourself, you are worth it.

Peace and Everything Good,

The Rev. JM Longworth, OEF
Spiritual Direction and Trauma Care

https://www.sdicompanions.org/sdi-profile/GreenMtFriarOEF/
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