An Ordinary Walk Along Copano Bay by Jan
I don't know why, but the stray cat caught my attention and held me immobilized. Bill and I were walking along the marina by the bait stand where cats are wont to go, so there seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary. I noticed the scroungy gray cat with gray-blue eyes and burrow-like ears. Ugly enough to scare the squawk out of a seagull! I stopped and looked at the cat. The cat sat relaxedly on her haunches and looked at me. The gray-blue unblinking gaze suspended me in timelessness. All my temporal worries and concerns seemed to dissipate until a brown pelican swooped over to the water for quick grab at supper.
It was just an ordinary thing, the cat and I. But what was remarkable was the way I gave over my attention for the moment. I simply let go. I suppose prayer during the day could be that way. If I would just turn my focus to God from time to time, if I would settle down and focus, if I would allow my soul to engage with God, if I would enter a prayerful gaze with the Divine.
If, if, if....
Anthony of the Desert (d.356) once said that a true prayer is one you don't understand. It is believed that Saint Anthony immured himself in a desert ruin in Egypt, often kneeling in prayer from sunset to sunrise. I much prefer a short casual stroll along the breaking waves of the sea wall, moist wind blowing in my face, the cacophony of seagulls communicating with their colony of feathered friends.
The point is that any ordinary moment of the day can be an occasion to lift my attention above the noise of the world to engage in a prayer that I don't understand. Somehow when I do that I feel the gaze of God. If I would just let myself do that sometime.... |
Learning To Be Astonished
Art critic Lil Copan suggests that still-life painting could be considered a spiritual practice, the discipline "of discovering something in the places we forget - daily - to look." In "Messenger", Mary Oliver describes the poet's task as "mostly standing still and learning to be astonished."
Those quotations set me thinking about how the arts help us see the wondrous holiness of everyday things.
Copan wrote about George Wingate's still lifes of simple pottery bowls. To me, Wingate's most breathtaking work is his series of paintings - I am tempted to call them "portraits" - of his own left hand. In light and shadow, Wingate explores the intricate play of bone and muscle, veins and hairs, strength and delicacy, displayed by his own hand in various poses. After looking at his paintings, I examined the wonders of my own left hand; I had newly learned to be astonished.
Artists are messengers calling us to see the world with fresh eyes. Reading poetry or viewing art can open us to wonders all around. Practicing one of the arts can be even more of a spiritual discipline. I am not much of a painter, but lessons I took years ago with a fine landscape artist certainly helped my vision. I see the different hues of clouds; I notice the tree limb's twist.
If you think your world is bland and boring, just try to capture it in art. Draw your own left hand, or paint the rose blooming in the garden. Photograph a tree in your back yard: in morning light, at noon, at dusk. Do it again next month; then look closely and long at all the photos. You will be amazed at what you see. Drop a hula hoop at random on your lawn, then try to describe in poetry or prose everything you see within that ring. Compose a tune for singing a verse of scripture, or choreograph a psalm.
You may never produce great art (then again, you just might!) Even so, I guarantee that you will discover something holy in the places we forget - daily - to look. --by Bill
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