STILL HARVEST

October 12, 2026

Hearing the rain in the middle of the night, I worried whether we would be losing the distinctive fall leaves by morning.  Perhaps we lost a few.  But this morning, there are bright diamonds of light sparkling in their places.  I was immediately reminded of sitting in church the morning after I received a small diamond from Joel when we became engaged for the last time.  But that’s another story.  Looking down at my hand, a sharp ray of light hit my eye.  It shone in all the colors of autumn, gold, yellow, orange, a dazzling green, the sanctuary lighting causing the display.  The size of the diamond didn’t really matter, it held all the brilliance of the promise we had made.

The memory is timely as I watch the rising sun turning the trees into bearers of diamonds.  In a few days we will be marking our thirty-second wedding anniversary.  For the first ten years or so on our anniversary, we would make a point to call Father Ken, the priest who had both prepared us for and con-celebrated the service with Joel’s Methodist pastor and a Catholic woman.  We wanted to let Ken know that we were still married!  After we had completed the questionnaire that was a tool for talking about expectations in marriage, he told us that honestly, we were the “most incompatible” couple he had ever worked with.  Perhaps that was why we were on our third engagement!  But we persisted.  If the intent is true, it may be that incompatibility beats boring every time!  I know this, laughter and love has outweighed tears and struggle by a long shot.  We may be incompatible, but our respect and admiration for each other is immense. Even after thirty-two years.

Some things have changed, however.  I look at Joel sitting at my feet on the other side of the sofa where I write.  His rich brown hair is turning silver and his beard a Santa white.  In the words of his father, “Son, you are not twenty-five anymore!”  In physical ways, this is true.  But the enthusiasm of his boyhood spirit is intact, if not increased.  He continues to work for good in the world and his kindness is still for me his sexiest trait.  In these present times, he has grown a real “edge”.  We have both lost any trace of our former rose-colored glasses.  But our shared distress in what is happening in our country due to unconscionable leadership has drawn us closer not only to each other but to a wider community of friends.  We know the importance of standing together.

Often during the years of our shared ministry, I’ve been asked by young people, “How did you know that he was the one?”  They were seeking a confirmation of their own choices.  I think my answer holds – attraction and excitement may be a great beginning, but when you find a partner with whom you share a desire to bring something healing into the world together, something that will bless it with more life, your bond becomes life-giving to more than yourselves.  And that bond is strengthened by your outward commitment as well as by the one you make to each other.

It appears the raindrops have dried on the tree branches and the shine has disappeared, but the colors are deep and luscious, the very essence of fall.  The theme of our wedding thirty-two years ago on October 15, 1994 was “It was Harvest.”  I still remember it as the happiest day of my life as this incompatible couple was surrounded by a loving community promising “to call each other to our best selves.”  Fortunately, those best selves always shown up with each other.  So, Father Ken, we are still married!  And it is still harvest.  Amen.

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!

See less

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.

Beyond the Wilderness

(Note: Since I rarely write a post on the weeks I’ve been asked to preach in an area church, Joel suggested I put it on my blog. What do you think? This is a message I gave in Bar Harbor, Maine, this past Sunday. The readings were Exodus 3:1-15; Romans 12:9-21; Matthew 16:21-26.)

            Rarely, almost never, do I put a title on a Sunday message prior to writing it.  I believe it is a Spirit-led endeavor and I never know where she is going to take me.  Today’s is the rare exception.  After writing out the lengthy readings weeks ago, three words tucked into them started to haunt me.  It may have been the Spirit totally upending my process.  As soon as I read: “He [Moses] led his flock beyond the wilderness, and came to Horeb, the mountain of God,” I wanted to know where that was, beyond the wilderness.  And I wanted to be there! 

Scripture works in mysterious ways.  The most inconspicuous words might take hold in your subconscious and show up behind your eyelids before you go to sleep or in morning meditation.  God can be tricky that way!  Then you can’t ignore them, and weeks later when you begin to write, they show right up as a title on the first page.  Well, I decided to go with it.

            “Moses led his flocks beyond the wilderness, and came to Horeb, the mountain of God.”  How do you get there, beyond the wilderness?  I would like to know.  I feel that we have all been wandering in a kind of wilderness together these days.  For me, the wilderness has always connoted an unsettling place of the unknown.  I have four siblings and all five of us live in different states.  Lately I start my day checking the weather in their respective home states.  How hot will it be for my sister KC, her kids and grandkids, in Georgia; are there tornadoes headed for my brother John in Missouri; are floods forecast for Susan as they recently inundated the Albany, New York, area; are there any sharks off the beach where Maureen swims and rescues seals in Rhode Island?  We’re usually okay here in Maine unless the smoke from the Canadian fires threaten anyone’s health.  And possible sharks!  I had none of these fears before.  This is a stressful and unfamiliar territory.  A wilderness of sorts.

            But that is not the only disconcerting region we wander through in our times. No matter what place we hold on the political spectrum, we cannot escape the discomfort of living in a time and place of deep antipathy.  Hostility reigns in many of our once tranquil communities as rage and fear of violence grows.  We live in a wilderness of animosity in our towns, our school districts, our families, and even within marriages and long-term friendships.  We are living in a tinder box with the constant potential of a match thrown in.  Clearly torches have already been hurled into places like the Middle East, central Africa, Eastern Europe, with the west and others setting the fuses.

            But you know all of this.  Must I rehash the woes of our time in a place we often come to for peace?  I’m afraid I do, if only to ask what is the purpose of the church in this wilderness?  Is there a way for the church to lead beyond and away from all the chaos?  Beyond the wilderness?  It is clear that the church needs to respond to our time as it is, not as it used to be, or even as we wish it to be.  This is what Jesus was getting at when Peter tried to soften the teacher’s message, denying the great danger he is in.  Jesus tells him to “Get behind me, Satan.”  Basically, what is happening today and what is soon to happen is what we have to deal with.  We must face it, all the way to the cross.  We cannot deny the times we are in and where we are headed and still serve God.  Jesus said, “If you want to follow me, you must pick up your own cross.”  We cannot get beyond the wilderness in any other way.

            But first, let’s take a look at the biblical concept of wilderness.  Times in the wilderness, the Israelites for forty years after being freed from Egypt and before entering the Promised Land, and Jesus for forty days and nights immediately after his baptism, were about more than uncertainty, unfamiliarity, and fear.  There was purpose in the wilderness.  It cannot be rushed right on through.

            When I was wrestling with those three words, beyond the wilderness, I googled them to see if anything would pop up.  Lo and behold, I found a little book by Rev. Thom Gardner with that very title.  The subtitle is “Rediscovering Opportunity in Crisis.”.  It presents wilderness as an essential period of self-discovery and preparation, a time spent with a God Gardner describes as a “repurposing God who turns trauma into triumph, failure into freedom, and pain into power.” (p.15) Perhaps we are not just lost in a wilderness, we are being “repurposed”. 

            Gardner claims that “wilderness may mean separation from what is familiar, but also separation to God and not from God.” (p 22)   He notes that solitude, which Henri Nouwen describes as a “furnace of transformation” is an element of the wilderness experience.  Without solitude, Nouwen wrote, “we remain victims of our society and continue to be entangled in the illusions of false self.”  I think our current wilderness experience is already beginning to disabuse us of our illusions.  Think about it…what have you learned about these United State of America in this extended wilderness time?  About yourself? 

            Another essential question:  Has the church been living in an extended wilderness time?  I suspect it has as people still long for “the good old days” when Sunday School was bursting at the seams, every church could call a full-time pastor, and the church was a center of social and familial life, a role now held by schools and civic organizations.  It is worth noting that those were the times when mainline Protestant churches seemed to walk hand-in-hand with American culture and norms.  Not so anymore.  And I say “Thank God!”  For would we truly be an authentic church if we celebrated the values that our current culture celebrates?  It does feel like God is repurposing us!  And we are deep in the process. 

            Let’s go back to Moses for a minute.  What happens just as he finds himself “beyond the wilderness?”  He has a powerful spiritual experience.  He sees a bush on fire, but not being consumed.  When he turns to look at it, God calls out to him.  The time Moses has spent in the wilderness has prepared him to hear and recognize the voice of God when he is called and to answer despite his fears and sense of inadequacy.  His time has readied him to be repurposed.  It is the same for us. 

            We have been readied to be a faithful church of Jesus Christ for our particular time and place.  We will not try to become the premier church lording it over a broken culture, which may define the White Christian Nationalist movement.  There is nothing “Christian” about it.  If we are to be authentic followers of Jesus, we must serve and protect the lives of all people.  Every creed, every color, and persuasion.  Particularly the poor and the marginal.  The oppressed and the refugee.  The homeless and imprisoned.  The indigenous and immigrant.  The church is being repurposed in this American culture which has left many of its ideals behind. 

            I add a little P.S. at the end here:  More than ever before it is clear that neither can we be a true church of Jesus without each other.  Without the support of a kind and hospitable community in which love is genuine and all have a strong sense of belonging.  I included the Pauline reading today because Paul’s advice is excellent!  “Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.”

            Secondly, it is clear we cannot do what we need to do without, like Peter, letting go or our denial and sharing our individual fears about what is happening.  Don’t rush the wilderness, take time in solitude and prayer to deepen your connection with the Spirit who not only calls to you, but is in you.  Keep your eyes wide open to perceive your burning sign and receive your particular mission.  Be reassured that your feet are standing on holy ground.  For God will always be our sure foundation.  Amen   

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!