Tag: love

PRESENCE

Posted on | by Carmen Butcher

Brother Lawrence’s Practice of the Presence is the calmest book I know. Because it embodies the wisdom of the calmest person I never met. Except through translation. Which is as good as meeting a person in real life. Almost.

That’s why I put his writings first. His spiritual maxims and his sixteen letters. That’s not always been the case. One reader mentioned that to me already, saying thank you for putting the friar first. Sometimes the additions by his good friend Joseph the priest are put first. My editor left it up to me. I had to reflect and decide. Finally I realized, I started with his voice, his writings, when translating. To get to know him. See who he is, so I’ll start the translation with him too. Center him and his voice.

Brother Lawrence’s voice is not one that would ordinarily be centered, not 330 years ago and not today. His is the voice of the poor and the marginalized.

I began reading Practice of the Presence in May 2020 in the original French, from the National Library of France. Thank you, Bibliothèque nationale de France! What I found was a down-to-earth mystic whose wise and loving spirit, juicy calmness, and beyond-binary mindset was somewhat out of step with the translations beside me that were leaning more into thisness-or-thatness.

I also found a confusing mess at times. Manuscript-wise, the original Practice of the Presence is a complicated artifact. I won’t go into details. The bulk of it is solid gold. But some spots cause head-scratching, especially where editor Joseph of Beaufort was working with the text. These don’t change the meaning of the original work, but do make its translation more challenging for a conscientious soul.

Add to that this. Brother Lawrence has been so loved over the centuries that the hundreds irresistibly drawn to translate him have proliferated a veritable Titanic of versions. Published traditionally, via Create Space, and often piecemealed into devotionals by those who love the friar’s calmness, a number of translations over the years also used an 1897 Victorian-era public domain translation. Through much handing-down over the centuries, the beloved friar’s work has been changed, rather like happens in the Telephone Game, where a whisper of “I love you. Do you like purple?” ends up after it goes around the circle of people as possibly, “Pick this or that. I hate eggplant.”

It’s impossibly hard to describe the high traffic this tiny book has known. Because of love. It’s like The Velveteen Rabbit.

It all got me to thinking, though.

So after last week’s activities—an IG Live (!) Launch with my friend Cathy Payne Anderson (posted on my YouTube Channel), Rhiannon Grant’s TikTok review, the mention of Brother Lawrence and his new translation in a sermon given at a Duke Divinity Faculty retreat, a Religion News Service interview “Carmen Acevedo Butcher gives medieval mysticism a Gen Z reboot” on August 25, 2022 with Renée Roden, and a Twitter sighting of the translation at the friar’s Église St-Joseph des Carmes on rue de Vaugirard (thanks to Dr. James K.A. Smith and family who brought Brother Lawrence home), and other exhilarating experiences that gifted me happy tears more than once—I sat down on the bed last night, good-exhausted, and counted pages in my translation.

Why was I counting pages? To return to that baseline of calmness that got me into this at the start. You know, numbers can be very soothing. Counting, and writing the page numbers down on three 5″ x 8″ index cards, I discovered percentages to help me better understand this translation. To be more accurate, I’d need to go into the manuscript and count words but don’t have the interest in that at the moment.

In my translation of Practice of the Presence—the first to offer the complete teachings of Brother Lawrence to a wide-ranging audience—here is who wrote what and how much space it takes up:

Solely written by Brother Lawrence: 46 pages

Solely written by Joseph of Beaufort: 41 pages

Sort of written by both Brother Lawrence & Joseph: 18 pages

That’s 44% written by Brother Lawrence (spiritual maxims and letters), 39% written by Joseph (note to the reader, profile, last words), and 17% we could say was sort of posthumously written by them “together” since this includes the conversations that Joseph took such careful notes on during visits with the friar, plus the heart of Brother Lawrence, a summary of Brother Lawrence’s teachings taken from his writings.

However, in the past, the priest Joseph’s more institution-oriented, dogma-conscious 39% has often dominated the book rather than centering Brother Lawrence and his 44%. Why is that? Likely inertia, as that was how it first came out (though that was about practicality, as we’ll see). Also, not having access to the original books would have been a hurdle.

Here’s how Brother Lawrence was first published by Joseph: In 1692’s 1st edition part 1, we find first Joseph’s note to the reader, Joseph’s eulogy (in my translation as last words), the friar’s spiritual maxims, and the friar’s letters. Then in 1694’s 1st edition part 2, we find Joseph’s the ways (in my translation as profile), conversations, and the heart of Brother Lawrence (originally called “the practice of the presence”).

Joseph’s friend Brother Lawrence died at seventy-seven in 1691, so it makes sense that a year later, so soon after the friar’s death, that in 1692 Joseph first put his Note to the Reader, then his Eulogy/Last Words as an introduction, to honor his friend and explain the Spiritual Maxims and Letters included next. When a couple of years later in 1694 Joseph published The Ways/Profile, then their Conversations, and then the Heart of Brother Lawrence, again it makes sense to introduce everyone to Brother Lawrence through a Profile of his life first.

In the past, it seemed to me, that opening eulogy had been weighing down the calm, joyful life of the evergreen spirit of the friar’s wisdom. I also wanted to center that unshakable joy he created by practicing the presence, come what may, as he said.

To try to get at the friar’s life more, those publishing Brother Lawrence’s teachings have in the past pulled out Joseph’s works and kept and published only the friar’s spiritual maxims and letters, or their shared conversations, or some combination of these (sometimes without all sixteen letters), calling that Practice of the Presence, with no note to say what was omitted. But truly Practice of the Presence wouldn’t have existed without Joseph. Plus his biographies of the friar and other additions contribute significantly to our understanding of Brother Lawrence, and are a frame I’m thankful to have. They are lovingly made.

My translation is so drawn to the friar—who came from a very marginalized background in 17th-century France—that it is also drawn to center him and his voice. Doing that also decenters his death to make room for centering his life.

While Joseph as a bonafide clergyman had to consider crossing t’s and dotting i’s, and could not take a step without remembering the volatile Quietist controversy, the friar is simply with the Presence—as he says, Come what may. Come what may for him included soldiering, being a prisoner of war, disability, daily pain for five decades, failure as a footman, severe anxiety, joining the monastery as a lay brother, living through climate crises and plague, and doing kitchen work he detested.

But ever hopeful, ever evolving-in-love Brother Lawrence says in one letter: “We don’t need to shout out to do this [practice of the presence]. God is closer to us than we may think.”

And if “God” as a word doesn’t work for you here, you’re invited to pick a word that does, or do whatever else works for you. “Love is closer to us than we may think.” “Self-compassion is closer to us than we may think.” “Loving others is closer than we may think.” “Divinity is closer to us than we may think.” “Seeing the truth of reality is closer to us than we may think.” “The True Self is closer to us than we may think.” And on.

May we know the friar’s “you don’t need to shout” in our dna. May we all know this deep Love, together.

Mystics Summit

Posted on | by Carmen Butcher

These stories are a taste of the Mystics Summit sponsored by The Shift Network. Aug 15-19, you’re invited to join for free: https://shiftnetwork.infusionsoft.com/go/mts22a24522/a24522

This summer Father Just-call-me-Greg Boyle and I had a conversation—he’s the white-bearded, plain-spoken, best-selling author, and down-to-earth Jesuit priest who founded and runs Homeboy Industries in LA, the largest gang-intervention, rehabilitation, and re-entry program in the world. To say this conversation was life-changing for me would be an understatement.

Near the end, I asked him did he have a story perhaps that sums up his work. He paused. Then Greg told a story “happened 3 days ago” about tragic death, loss, community, love, and a woman pulling a warm burrito out of her bra. It has to be heard to be appreciated so that’s all I’ll say about it.

Over two weeks I had a 35-to-45-minute conversation with each of these seventeen, in this order: Rabbi Rami Shapiro, Andrea Menard, Father Greg Boyle; Dr. James Finley; Rukmini Chaitanya, Grandmaster Mantak Chia; Dr. William Bloom; Rev. Dr. Robyn Henderson-Espinoza, Mike Morrell; Andrew Harvey, Raven Sinclaire, Colette Lafia; Tenley Wallace, Carl McColman; Matthew Fox, Rev. Ana Jones, Mirabai Starr.

When invited to co-host the Mystics Summit for The Shift Network with Mike Morrell, I thought, What a wonderful way to be a student, learn more about spirituality, make new friends, strengthen existing friendships, and have dialogue with those who want the world to be a kinder place. Here’s what I learned.

Since the zoom camera is ultra sensitive, wonderful drivers before each session reminded: “Please don’t talk while the other person is talking, because it switches the camera to you.” Before my 5-4-3-2-1 countdown to start, I’d add my own reassurance to the conversation partner that I’d be listening, albeit quietly, during our time together: “Please know I’m listening very deeply to all you say. I’d rather not switch between mute and unmute, so I’ll resist my Cuban and Southern habits to interject while you talk with ‘Yes, I see,’ ‘Uh-huh,’ ‘How interesting.’ I’ll simply wait for you to pause before I talk again, letting you have the floor so our conversation can unfold organically.”

Turns out, that’s the best way to have a conversation. Chockful of down-to-earth and sometimes surprising stories and always sharing wisdom, these conversations highlighting each person I interviewed and their good work and teaching were also extraordinarily holy and deeply nourishing. Listening is an amazing way to be human. That’s the main thing I learned or rather re-learned.

Here are glimpses into these conversations, in (almost) chronological order:

They are (almost) chronological because my first deep bow is to the amazing inaugural host of the 2021 Mystics Summit, the incomparable Mirabai Starr, whose interview happened to be the final one scheduled. An award-winning author, Mirabai talks about her Wild Mercy: Living the Fierce and Tender Wisdom of the Women Mystics. Wild Mercy is such a joy to read, or you can listen to her read it (a treat!). Mirabai has also received critical acclaim for her revolutionary new translations of John of the Cross’ Dark Night of the Soul and Teresa of Avila’s The Interior Castle.

An interspiritual teacher with an amazing gift for cultivating community and for making all feel welcome, Mirabai is a teacher’s teacher, an author’s author, a translator’s translator, and a host’s host. I watched a dozen or more of her brilliant, wise 2021 Mystics Summit interviews in preparation for co-hosting this year’s Summit.

In our conversation, Mirabai wanted to discuss translation as a doorway into sacred presence so we did. She also shares her wisdom about the Divine Feminine, how mystics of the past are accessible to you in your life right now, and how you do NOT have to be perfect to qualify as a living mystic yourself. You’ll also hear how Mirabai still owns and plays the flute she got while a student in Spain.

Rabbi Rami Shapiro is author of over 36 books, including Minyan, Ten Principles for Living a Life of Integrity; The Divine Feminine in Biblical Wisdom Literature, sharing his encounters with Chochma/Sophia; and Holy Rascals, which is another wise book of his describing what he calls a “zero-sum worldview rooted in a Strict Father God theology in which God dominates men, men dominate women, the wealthy dominate the poor and middle class, and humans dominate nature.” Rabbi Rami was so kind in the green room as we checked sound and light levels. Then he said at one point in our conversation, “I’m not really all that interested in God the Father,” and we were friends for life.

In our conversation he describes well our biggest challenges today and how we can go “beyond Big Religion,” which he describes as “organized religion focused on patriarchy, power, and control,” and he shares the Perennial Wisdom at the mystic heart of most all religion as key to our collective sustainable future. These include: All life manifests a dynamic non-dual Aliveness called by many names; we humans are born able to wake up in, with, and as this Aliveness; waking up calls us to the Golden Rule of caring for all other creatures; and this service to being a blessing (think: contributing to the common good of ALL creatures) is our highest calling.

Rabbi Rami shared a very simple exercise to help us embody the compassion of the Divine Mother and that will have you looking at a simple ant in never the same way again. After our conversation we talked about a roly-poly I’d tried and succeeded in not stepping on during my walk that morning, and Rami is the kind of kind person who is genuinely interested in such stories. I sent Rabbi Rami a thank you note after, and a few weeks on, in the mail from Tennessee came a red envelope and inside a cheerful Snoopy card with the kindest note.

In fact, Rabbi Rami is so kind that you start to really imagine that religion can be embodied kindness, a language of living-out being compassionate, or, as he says, “Religions are like languages: no language is true or false; all languages are of human origin; each language reflects and shapes the civilization that speaks it; there are things you can say in one language that you cannot say or say as well in another; and the more languages you speak, the more nuanced your understanding of life becomes.”

That same day Andrea Menard entered the zoom room from Nova Scotia where she is filming the Robyn-Carr-based Sullivan’s Crossing (which will make fans of Virgin River happy). Andrea—known in the Sacred realm as Grandmother Wind—reminds us to slow down, respect, and acknowledge, for example, the traditional territory of the Mi’kmaq (in Nova Scotia), the official knowledge keepers of that territory.

In our conversation, she shared her wisdom as a Métis singer, songwriter, actress, TEDx speaker, facilitator of the rise of the Sacred Feminine, and founder of the Sacred Feminine Learning Lodge. Then she sang LIVE a beautiful bilingual water prayer song in Michif and English from her September-releasing album.

My first day of filming interviews ended with Father Greg Boyle and the warm burrito story. He said, “I’m still laughing three days on,” and I can say I’m still laughing weeks on, thoughtfully.

Next I got to interview Dr. James Finley, former Trappist monk at the Abbey of Gethsemani in Kentucky, where Thomas Merton was his spiritual director. Jim Finley is also a Core Teacher at the Center for Action and Contemplation with Richard Rohr and others, and host of a “monastery in cyberspace,” as he calls it, his podcast, Turning to the Mystics.

Jim wanted to meet a couple of times beforehand via zoom, so we could have a real conversation. I know his work 100% and was thrilled he wanted to meet, and also petrified. The first time he sent me a zoom link an hour beforehand. The first thing he said when I got on, gobsmacked, was “Hey, let me show you the view.” Which put me at ease.

The second time we pre-met, I zoomed in to see Jim in his book-lined, warmly lit study, and he smiled without saying anything, and then held up a legal pad, wrote his phone number on it big, so I called him. “I’ve got to get someone out to look at my connection,” he said, “but I thought we could talk on the phone and see each other on zoom until it’s fixed, if that’s alright,” so we did.

At the end, he and I had such a laugh because since I’d been holding my phone with my left hand the whole time, I did a half-bow of reverent goodbye where the anjali mudra was my right palm pointing skyward and pressed against the imaginary one (occupied by holding my phone to my face so he could hear me explain this). He did one half-bow, one-palm anjali mudra right back to me, laughing, even though he had his cell phone on speaker, lying flat on the table, so he wasn’t holding it.

Jim is so calm, he reminds me of Brother Lawrence in that way. Both have a calmness that is a muscle, produced by invisible spiritual exercises over a lifetime. It’s a calmness all around them can enter.

In between these pre-meetings with Jim, he sent me his teaching memoir, releasing from Orbis in 2023. It’s titled Finding Our Way Along the Healing Path. I read it in a day. Gobbled its pdf up. CAN’T WAIT for it to come out.

In addition to being a raconteur in our conversation, sharing stories that make you feel you yourself have met Thomas Merton in Kentucky, Jim Finley talks so helpfully about how we can learn to recognize and cultivate the stance that offers the least resistance to being overtaken by mystical oneness with God or Love or Mystery, which he describes as a gift always there, available for the taking up. He speaks from profound experiences with trauma. His words resonate in deep ways since he knows and has healed from trauma, and as a clinical psychologist (retired) he has helped countless others healing from trauma. Now he works primarily with adult survivors of trauma who want their spirituality to be a resource in their healing.

As an adult survivor of trauma myself who wants spirituality to be a resource in my ongoing healing, I’m thankful for Dr. James Finley and his beyond-the-binary perspective. And for how he brings trauma in so it can be healed, be healing. Our conversation features Jim saying so many wonderfully human, wonderfully healing things that it rewards both listening and re-listening.

I am so grateful for Jim Finley. He is, as Mirabai Starr says, “a true mystic,” even a “renegade mystic,” and a kind mentor for all.

My next day of interviews took me to the Bahamas and to Thailand, so to speak, conversing with Rukmini Chaitanya and Grandmaster Mantak Chia. Conversing with Rukmini Chaitanya reminds how practice is so tied to our humanness. Rukmini has a PhD from UC Berkeley, a sunny spirit, and accessible teaching. A senior staff member of the Sivananda Ashram Yoga Retreat Bahamas, she is personal assistant to Acharya/spiritual director Swami Swaroopananda. She shares how anxiety at Cal motivated her into yoga practice. With one of THE best recording rooms ever, yellows, blues, and oranges, with a peaceful, breezy Bahamas-feel, Rukmini teaches the Sivananda Yoga Tradition and Advaita Vedanta Philosophy in a wonderfully accessible way.

Grandmaster Mantak Chia was born to a Chinese family in Thailand and raised in a Christian family—he began studying the Buddhist path of mindfulness as a child, and in our conversation he shares stories from his growing up. He also tells the most important lesson taught him by his Taoist master, and teaches the Inner Smile Meditation. I appreciate that it was 7am for Mantak while it was 5pm for me. He got up early so we could have our conversation, and I appreciate his gracious willingness to describe for us the thousands-of-years-old practices still so incredibly relevant for our modern world.

Dr. William Bloom lives in England, and he was and is a joy to talk with. Dr. Bloom is a groundbreaking UK educator in the field of holistic wellbeing and director of the Spiritual Companions Trust. Though he is very down-to-earth, you immediately sense that, as The Independent says, he has “an encyclopaedic knowledge of meditation” and deep experience of it too. He shared his fascinating background story (which includes publishing his first novel at age 22), and check out his story of the blue sky.

William teaches how spiritual and mystic experiences are accessible and natural for everyone. Some of his books include Meditation Masterclass, The Power of Modern Spirituality, Feeling Safe, and The Encyclopedia of Mind, Body, Spirit. We met on the day news was breaking that Boris Johnson had resigned, which reminded me that in an age of political uncertainty, William’s sharing of timeless, practical wisdom has special relevance.

The next day of interviews, I was in the room with Rev. Dr. Robyn Henderson-Espinoza. Dr. Robyn is a Nashville-based, recently married (congrats, Robyn!) storyteller, professor, public theologian and ethicist, and founder of the Activist Theology Project. Dr. Robyn has a lovely poetic description for combining contemplation and action for a stronger community—a “murmuration of becoming.” Their imagination and vision for an ethical future are compelling, down-to-earth, doable. They have ideas for how we can be human, again, and I also got invited for a porch chat in Nashville, with iced tea or bourbon, my choice. Looking forward to that!

Then I was interviewed that same day by co-host Mike Morrell and got to talk about Brother Lawrence and my new translation of this timeless 17th-century Discalced Carmelite friar who transcends any tradition and has been in-print and beloved for centuries by all people, religious or not. My accessible, accurate translation is the first complete offering of this wisdom, the first by a woman of color, the first that includes all passages, and the first to use non-binary pronouns for the Divinity. I hope it will bring everyone peace and joy as it has done and does me.

After, I interviewed The Mystics Summit co-host Mike Morrell. Mike went to beautiful Berry College, the largest in the world at 27,000 green acres with beautiful eagles (eagle cam too) and wonderful teachers, in the same town where I used to teach. Mike is the collaborating author, with Father Richard Rohr, on The Divine Dance, founder of Wisdom Camp, and a founding organizer of the justice, arts, and spirituality festival Wild Goose in North Carolina. His helpful theological mulch metaphor, his creativity, and his stories are worth tuning in for, as well as his generosity of spirit.

Andrew Harvey astounded next. Internationally acclaimed poet, novelist, translator, mystical scholar, and spiritual teacher, author of over 20 books, and founder of the Institute for Sacred Activism, Andrew discusses AND READS FROM beautifully, the astounding work of the great Christian woman mystic, Hadewijch of Antwerp, exploring five of her greatest poems and meditations from his new book Love is Everything: 365 Poems and Meditations from Hadewijch of Antwerp. A 13th-century Beguine, Hadewijch was silenced for five centuries—her voice now returns through Andrew’s brilliant and moving translations, to inspire us all.

Raven Sinclaire is a writer, teacher, and student of Hermetic wisdom. Co-author of the best-selling anthology: Ready, Set, Live! she has an upcoming book: Old Truths/New Light, and is an internationally known workshop and retreat leader. Raven is also currently working on her Master’s degree at the University of Dundee. In our conversation, Raven shares with us stories of her own initiation into wisdom. She also speaks of Hypatia, one of my heroes. Talking with Raven, what most impressed me is how often we overlook the wisdom within, and how she has developed tools and teachings for recovering and engaging with it, and when her Old Truths/New Light Hermetic Wisdom Oracle Deck arrived, I’ve found it both beautiful and deeply helpful. As author Andrew Harvey says, “Raven is authentic, humble, experienced and inspired.”

Colette Lafia is a San Francisco-based writer, spiritual director, and international retreat leader who dropped in next. She has a gentle, joyful spirit. Her book The Divine Heart is a 2022 Nautilus Award winner, and I had the great joy of reading it earlier this year. Of this gem, author and interspiritual teacher Mirabai Starr says, “In this luminous book, spiritual guide Colette Lafia offers the fruits of her tenderly cultivated inner life to feed people of all genders who thirst for a direct encounter with the embodiment of love, which she recognizes as our own true nature.” Colette does spiritual direction both in person and virtually, and in our conversation Colette’s spiritual-directing wisdom shows as she shares down-to-earth ways to listen, grow, and transform as human beings. She draws from her own stories and experiences as a contemplative and gives you very practical steps to experience your life and all of life as a love story. I’m here for that. I also especially appreciate that Colette teaches a stance of self-acceptance. Her abundant, clear teachings are very practical for everyone who wants more abiding peace and joy in their lives.

Next Tenley Wallace danced into our conversation. Now in Oregon and once from the Bay Area, she and I share this geographical connection. To prepare for our interview, I watched a few of Tenley’s dances online, and they are incredible. Tenley describes herself as a midwife for women’s transformation through dance, yoga, and ancient yogini wisdom from India, Tibet, and Nepal. And even that just scratches the surface of what she’s done and is doing. Tenley is a translator of ancient wisdom, having studied intensively with yoginis, and she has created original embodiment practices for anyone wanting to live with more confidence, grace, and power. Please look up her videos on YouTube to see what I mean! She concludes our conversation with a brief, easy practice that anyone can do at any time to pause and reconnect with their true self.

My friend Carl McColman kindly came on that day after a long stretch of traveling and leading a retreat in New York. Carl is a spiritual director, retreat leader, and author of The Big Book of Christian Mysticism, and many others, including Eternal Heart: The Mystical Path to a Joyful Life and Unteachable Lessons: Why Wisdom Can’t Be Taught (and Why That’s Okay)—it must be “caught” instead.

An internationally known speaker and teacher on mystical spirituality and contemplative living, Carl also co-hosts with Cassidy Hall and Kevin Johnson, Encountering Silence, a podcast about, well, one of my favorite subjects: SILENCE. They listen to (and speak with) everyone there—Amy Frykholm, Nikki Grimes, The Rev. Dr. Jacqui Lewis, Dr. Beverly Lanzetta, Sister Joyce Rupp, Kevin Quashie, and Barbara Brown Taylor, to name just a few. You can tune in here: http://encounteringsilence.com/

In our conversation, my sage friend Carl talks of the inspiring and instructive life and wisdom of theologian Howard Thurman, how mysticism corrects the religion of dour moralism, and how it inspires social and communal transformation as well. We had a good conversation and hope you’ll join us!

My last day of interviews were with Matthew Fox, Rev. Ana Jones, and Mirabai Starr. If you wanted to go out with a bang, that’s how to do it.

Though he never uses these prefixes much, Rev. Dr. Matthew Fox makes a conversation resemble how the world feels after a parching summer meets rain—the steam that rises from the red earth like magic, the earthy smell of petrichor that fills your nose and body with its fragrance, and the feeling of lightness, like anything is possible, and you’re sure you just spotted a green shoot growing from that bare patch over there—that’s Matthew Fox.

What do I love about Matthew Fox? First, that he had slides of Hildegard’s colorful mandalas to talk about during our conversation: “Egg of the Universe,” “The Human as Microcosm of the Macrocosm,” “Cosmic Tree Cultivation,” and “All Beings Celebrate Creation.” He points out, by the way, in “Cosmic Tree Cultivation” the snake in the border and how Hildegard saw snakes as good, which is also my understanding of snakes, one reason I wear a ouroborous ring made of recycled white gold.

I started our conversation by holding up my dog-eared copy of Matthew’s Illuminations of Hildegard of Bingen in tribute to his decades of being my and so many others’ mentor. Mirabai Starr describes him best: “There is not another man on the planet who has championed the sacred feminine with a fraction of the wisdom, scholarship, creative fire, and holy chutzpah as Matthew Fox.”

Via the lens of the Webb Telescope, Matthew asks us: “Might this sharing of the earliest galaxies and stars beaming into our living rooms awaken us to the sacredness of our 13.8 billion year journey?” He turns to “feminist theologian” Hildegard of Bingen, whom he also calls “the grandmother of the Rhineland mystics,” and “a Trojan horse in the Vatican,” because she centers creation and her love of Nature in her viriditas or greening theology, as does Matthew in his Creation Spirituality. (We remember that Pope Benedict silenced Matthew for a time for speaking out on behalf of the Divine Feminine and for Mother Earth.)

Matthew also discusses how the ancient Mesoamerican teaching recognizes the compassionate Divine Feminine: “To be human one must make room in one’s heart for the wonders of the universe.” That reminds me of Death Valley: Life Blooms on PBS, where we follow Baratunde Thurston and time-lapse photographer Harun Mehmedinovic, who talks of how important it is to see the stars, for the wonder of it, and how light pollution prevents us from that experience more and more. I got teary-eyed myself as Matthew described the Webb Telescope scientists getting teary-eyed seeing the awe-inspiring, awesome photographs.

Matthew and I had a laugh near the end after he’d been sharing lyrically about Genesis 1’s Original Blessing, Creation’s birthright of goodness and our interdependence on all creatures. He pointed out how much of theology starts unfortunately with Genesis 2 and an unhealthy Original Sin that has historically made for a narcissistic theology of self-loathing, one where we’ve forgotten the goodness and the sacred nature of Nature that we meant to honor and protect, and from that sacred focus, develop an economic system that works for all beings.

I followed up with something like: “I appreciate how you’ve spent—are devoting—your whole life trying to glue Chapter 1 back into Genesis.” He laughed, and we agreed that super glue might be needed.

My penultimate interview was with Rev. Ana Jones. (Ana is said to rhyme with “Amma.”) Rev. Ana Jones is an internationally renowned Interfaith Minister who speaks to ways that we can listen to the still small voice of intuition. Being with her, you can’t help but notice that she has a profound calmness and optimism. She brings into our conversation allusions to many religious writings that deepen her practices. Ana also shares insightful personal stories, and we see that what she teaches, she lives. Ana helps us better understand what intuition is and how to listen to it, teaches that we need everyone’s inner mystic and intuitive gifts to be honed for co-creating a better and brighter future, and reads a beautiful poem as a benediction. With Facebook communities of over 450,000 members, Ana’s inclusive, listening approach resonates with many and gives me hope.

I am thankful to have worked on this Mystics Summit with so many amazing people. And this is just half of it! Mike interviewed such wonderful souls, including Banafsheh Sayyad, Bushi Yamato Damashii, Alexander John Shaia, Taya Mâ Shere, Rebekah Berndt, Kabir Helminski, Hillary Raining, Tripp Fuller, Micky ScottBey Jones (she/her), Sophie Strand, Juliet Rania, Rabbi Jay Michaelson, Gareth Higgins, Therese Taylor-Stinson, Tada Hozumi, and others, whom I’m also looking forward to tuning into. May you all enjoy all of this wonderful feast!

These stories are a taste of the Mystics Summit sponsored by The Shift Network. It’s August 15-19, join for free here: https://shiftnetwork.infusionsoft.com/go/mts22a24522/a24522

Thank you! Peace to all,

Carmen

Red Dirt, Rilke, & The Sidney Psalter

Posted on | by Carmen Butcher

Alexandria “Lexi,” Alithia, Amerie, Annabell, Eliahna “Ellie,” Eliahna, Jackie, Jailah, Jayce, Jose, Layla, Maite, Makenna, Maranda, Nevaeh, Rogelio, Tess, Uziyah, and Xavier, plus educators Eva and Irma. Grieving the deaths of nineteen children and two teachers in Uvalde, Texas, and more than a dozen people wounded.

I remember an international student from England who asked me once in disbelief during an office hour conference: “Why do you allow guns here like you do? My father was in the secret service, and when he retired, he had to turn his firearms back in. We don’t have guns, and we don’t have gun violence.”

I had no answer. I have no answer.

I turned to other questions I can begin to answer on an incredibly still gorgeous blue-sky Sunday morning. Contemplating how growing up in the South influenced me as a writer and translator. And, because I’m always up for learning more about how women navigated systemic obstructions, reading a dissertation by Dr. Han VanderHart on seventeenth-century women poets, thanks to Twitter.

Which tells me that writing and rewriting, reading and taking notes are sometimes more comforting to me than even walking in sunshine. Putting good ideas/feelings, and healthy challenges into my brain is a kind of nourishment when my self is existentially frustrated. Being a focused student is soothing, healing.

My good friend Darrell Z. Grizzle invited me to do a future online interview for his blog, Story & Spirit in the Shadow-Haunted South. His kind idea, to help get the word out about my translation of the spiritual classic Practice of the Presence by Brother Lawrence, releasing on August 23, 2022. Two of his questions, “What is your connection to the American South?” and “How has that connection to the South informed your work as a writer?” got red dirt on my knees again.

I grew up in the rolling ancient hills of northwest Georgia. If you haven’t felt and seen and walked through the lacy soft mist embracing those hills when they’re green and it’s early morning and it wraps you up in its beautiful mystery, you haven’t yet lived. The purple of those morning glories will teach you the meaning of glory like nothing else can or will. And its long-weathered, rust-shaded dirt is hard, packed by history. The ack-swat-whack at unassailable horse flies down deserted, asphalted back roads where I walked regularly taught me the meaning of persistence and made the pesky gnats of my mother’s south Georgia seem nowhere near vexing.

My much-loved neighbors influenced me a lot. I grew up in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, and they taught me Southern Mountain English and culture, how neighbors help each other, or as they said, holp each other. Beautiful language—How over there is over yunder way and a photo is a pitcher and there’s a joke my classmates told me in 5th grade about did I know that the wise men in the Christmas story were actually firemen because they came “from afar.”

Partial to bib overalls, my neighbors worked at deafening looms making denim for the cotton mill owners, and grew and canned their own vegetables. And raised sardined yellow chicks in long stinking chicken houses. While rocks and trees deep in the woods where I played had Cherokee carvings on them. And several of my high school friends who are Black whispered to me they had been shot at driving through a town nearby. And church was a screed or screech or scree of brimstone from a booming pulpit while women quietly tended nursery. And my childhood held other trauma for me. While I also found school almost impossible during decades of undiagnosed dyslexia and deep anxiety.

But the homemade ice tea was so sweet, so cold, and so delicious I can still feel my teeth set on delicious edge just by thinking of its amber light in a clear pitcher. Peaches were worth eating with the fuzz on, so juicy they drip down the chin. A neighbor called me into her garden one summer afternoon, pulled and offered stunned me a huge ripe red tomato, said, “Bite hit,” and only then tasting that deep sweetness did I learn why tomatoes are indeed fruit. I watched a neighbor’s house burn slap to the ground and then other neighbors took off work and built them a new one, while I helped clean the trailer they lived in until it was done. And, yes, the guns that were everywhere made me as nervous as Fiver. I have stories about guns I’ve written down for myself but don’t tell.

How do all of these stories and more shape a writer/author and a translator of spiritual texts?

I think of Rilke’s reminder to Franz Xaver Kappus—”Herr Kappus”—in Briefe an Einen Jungen Dichter (Letters to a Young Poet). I “try to have love for the questions themselves,” and I hear Rilke say again, “Live the questions now.” But how do we live the very hard questions now facing us all?

So often quoted, Rilke’s wisdom has become a bit of a blunt saw, so I refresh its teeth by looking at the original German, both beautiful and useful: “zu versuchen, die Fragen selbst liebzuhaben” (“try to have love for the questions themselves“) and “Leben Sie jetzt die Fragen” (“Live the questions now”). “Perhaps then,” Rilke adds, and I translate, “one day far from now you can gradually, without realizing it, be able to live into the answer.” This is dependent, he says, on the possibility that his young letter-writer does exercise his inherent power for “conceiving and shaping a sacred, healthy way of life.” If you like, you can read Rilke’s July 16, 1903 letter yourself at poetryintranslation or in German at Google books.

And what does Rilke have to do with my reading Dr. Han VanderHart’s dissertation this morning? Living the question for me means staying open to all I don’t know. Especially to that which doesn’t seem to be of any immediate practical use to me, but that pulls me to it for some unknown reason. Through all of life’s ups and downs, my journey has been profoundly enriched by listening to what and/or who I don’t know. Just being curious and genuinely interested in what others are doing is worthwhile, which today included this: “Gender and Collaboration in Seventeenth-Century English Poetry: Philip and Mary Sidney, Aemilia Lanyer, Katherine Philips and Mary, Lady Chudleigh.” Listen to that title. I’m a fan of dissertation titles. Just reading it reminds me how solitary and brave and vertigo-inducing writing a dissertation is. (Yes, it’s also quite a community effort, but paradoxically, at its core, writing a dissertation is one long terrifying leap off a cliff, just you.)

Through Twitter logic, I stumbled happily onto VanderHart’s Twitter page: @hmvanderhart. I checked out linktr.ee/hanvanderhart, then ordered their What Pecan Light book of poetry, because I have spent countless hours in hushed, dense pecan groves, picking pecans for hours on end for my elderly neighbor for quarters that I stacked up very high, when I was ten or so in Perry, Georgia, and I fell in love with the way the light comes through pecan tree leaves, and anyway picking pecans is very meditative if you’re the meditative type. Then I went in search of VanderHart’s work on these four women writers: Mary, Aemilia, Katherine, Mary. Let’s admit it: One of the unsung, quiet joys of the truly chaotic, clamoring internet is you can access and read as-yet-unpublished dissertations and masters theses.

What is so great about VanderHart’s dissertation is it brings Mary Sidney Herbert, Countess of Pembroke; Aemilia Lanyer; Katherine Philips; and Lady Mary Chudleigh to light, to breathe today’s air. I’d never heard of these writers. Or if I did hear of Mary Sidney Herbert, it was in passing, because of course I read Herbert’s brother Philip Sidney’s Defence of Poesy and Astrophel and Stella, but his younger sister would’ve been sadly soon forgotten on the high-altitude hike to a PhD Phi Beta Kappa.

VanderHart’s work elevates the poetry of these women, which they describe as “explicitly and warmly interested in the other.” We need more empathy and more interest in “the other”—in each other, I thought. To my delight, the dissertation’s through line demonstrates that the poetry of Herbert, Lanyer, Philips, and Chudleigh “does not merely resist, challenge or subvert male patriarchy networks, but that their poetries enact an engagement with them that creates literary and social spaces for women readers and writers.”

These poets made healthy community through writing. That’s it in seven words. I was happy to learn about their “collaborative writing,” and loved following VanderHart’s analysis of how the work of these women “acknowledges social bonds and community and, in fact, sees these practices as essential to the writing of poetry itself.” My teaching and writing keep me grounded in community, and seeing this example from several centuries ago inspires me, I mused.

My favorite chapter was on Mary Sidney Herbert. What a good Sunday morning read. Mary collaborated with her brother Philip Sidney in making psalm verse paraphrases. When he died in battle at thirty-one during the Eighty Years’ War, over 100 psalms were left for her to finish. She was grief-stricken, but carried on. In this chapter VanderHart directs keen attention to the act of revision—to “re-seeing” itself, a process I love for being so intimate with who I am (becoming) as a writer and a person.

VanderHart shows us Mary Sidney Herbert’s loving, brilliant work up close. Previously, Herbert was branded by scholars as a so-called “inveterate tinkerer who found it difficult to make up her mind” (quoting William Ringler, but also an epithet, VanderHart notes, used by Gary Waller, Harold Love, J.C.A. Rathmell, et al.). This chapter’s discussion of “the joy of revision,” particularly of Herbert’s “joy” in her “care[ful,] attenti[ve]” revisions of Philip’s psalms, and of revision itself as an activity “closer to that of a musician playing variations on a favourite theme” (quoting Harold Love) reminds me of the unfinished nature of all writing that is truly alive, even the most polished.

When I read that Margaret P. Hannay describes the Psalms in the Tanakh as a “divinely inspired expression of human experience,” I thought how I feel just the same about Brother Lawrence’s Practice of the Presence. It’s genuine wisdom. Always universal.

I loved discovering that Philip Sidney chose not “sinners” but “bad mates” in his poetic paraphrasing of Psalm 1, making the language “richer and more steeped in early modern life practices than the more abstract language of the English Bible translations,” as VanderHart observes. John Donne would later say that in The Sidney Psalter Philip and Mary “teach us how to sing.”

Next, VanderHart’s chapter on Aemilia Lanyer explores the life and writing of this Londoner, whose poetry was “expressly concerned” with cultivating a community of reading, writing women. Lanyer wrote from the margins. VanderHart discusses that she was “probably a Jew, married to a gentile instrumentalist associated with the production of royal music.” Lanyer reminds us that “to write from the margins, . . . is to write from a perspective of self-deprecation and unworthiness. Or at least a performance of humilitas.” As an olive-skinned woman coming of age in the South, margins are familiar terra firma.

Poet Katherine Philips intrigues VanderHart for how she “amends the concept of Stoic retreat by making sociability central to its conception as well as central to her writing process.” Philips’ poetry centers relationship and friendship rather than the expected Stoic retirement for self-discovery, self-healing. And poet Mary Chudleigh is fascinating for how she creates a “collaborative conversation” in the unlikeliest of places, with minister John Sprint, and her “Ladies Defence” is a wonderful argument for self-kindness.

VanderHart’s engaging dissertation ends with this paragraph about these remarkable poets they’ve brought blinking and bright-eyed into the klieg lights of the twenty-first century:

“With or without rooms of their own in which to write, early modern women in seventeenth-century England wrote with and for each other. To bring the modern language of collaboration to their poetry is to highlight an attention to audience and community integral to the production of their texts. The four women whose work this dissertation examines did not view themselves as writing alone but in a company of other women, readers and writers. These chapters argue that these four poets did not have the luxury or privilege—despite some of their aristocratic statuses—of considering themselves as working alone or autonomously. Whether the aim in addressing each other by name was praise, invitation or, as in the case of Lady Chudleigh’s poetry, a deployment of ‘reciprocal esteem’ taking the form of corrective dialogue, the recognition of specific others forms the occasion of the poem itself.”

Thankful for these poets, I reflect. I also do not consider myself writing alone but in the company of others, readers and writers, present and past, connecting these diverse strands: Grizzle, Rilke, VanderHart.

My friend Darrell Z. Grizzle and I write in different genres, but share similar interests, especially concerning books and kindness. Long ago, in a galaxy far away, he emailed me out of the blue to ask would I come to his book group discussing my Cloud of Unknowing translation. I hesitated because I was really busy teaching full-time and raising two young children, until Darrell said, “And I have to tell you I LOVE your footnotes.” Done. Our friendship and collaboration expand my world, helping me enter more deeply into “living the questions,” as Rilke says to his epistolary companion, while the seventeenth-century women poets also “lived the questions” against all odds, as Dr. Han VanderHart’s excellent work brings to life. How? Community. That’s what they all share. Sacred, healthy community is oxygen.

The same is true for Brother Lawrence. He was living as a friar in a Paris monastery at the same time, and right across the channel from the amazing women writers Herbert, Lanyer, Philips, and Chudleigh, who elevate community in their poetry. Community made and kept the friar’s spiritual classic Practice of the Presence alive. It has endured, been in print, read, and loved over 300 years, yet was only published in 1692, a year after his death, because of his friendship with Joseph of Beaufort, because of their conversations, and because Joseph and other friends wanted to read more of their friend’s writings.

Brother Lawrence also spent his days “living the questions” in community. He asked himself, and others asked him: “How can I heal? How can I find peace? How can I develop a friendship with the Divine? How can I become more like Love? How can I become Love?” His response was simple: “Practice the presence.”

Sacred, healthy community is oxygen.

Thank goodness Love is closer to us than we may think. Brother Lawrence experienced that 24/7, and when he writes, “God,” I think “Love,” because as we read his work, we realize it’s all about true love (amour is one of his favorite words). The Divine is Love to him, and for anyone hankering for more of God, Love, Wisdom, or however a person might conceive of Meaning or Ultimate Reality, the friar’s Practice of the Presence is balm.

Clicking into news, Love is easy to forget these days. I remind myself, it’s worthwhile to remember that, as Brother Lawrence also says, “Everything is possible for those who believe, even more for those who hope, still more for those who love, and most of all for those who practice and persevere in these three powerful paths.”

I see him limping toward the kitchen to begin cracking eggs for omelettes when that line came to him.


Oddkins

Posted on | by Carmen Butcher

“One’s whole life is in the work, in the writing and in the play.”

That’s Donna Haraway, a scientist-cultural activist-professor. In the documentary Story Telling for Earthly Survival by Fabrizio Terranova (58:02), Haraway presents my favorite beyond-colonial, beyond-patriarchal approach to being in the now, on earth, in community. It’s all about being present, embodied, here, now.

Her words also resonate with my translating. My whole life is in it.

It’s like the story of the shucked corn cobs Earcell would bring my family. She’d call about 5:30 of an evening: “Git your pot on, water a-boiling. I’m heading to the field. Be over tirectly.” That corn, with the freshest sugar, grown by our thoughtful generous neighbor, walked over and shared with us, then cooked by my mother, well, no other corn on the cob has ever, and I mean ever, tasted as delicious.

Translating sometimes reminds me of that freshest taste of the gift of just-picked corn.

The snow leopard, called “the ghost of the mountains,” is elusive and beautiful. Evolved to thrive in some of the harshest environments on our planet. Elusive also because its grey, yellow, brown-spotted pelage blends in with its rocky, snowy environment.

A good translator is a little like a snow leopard. If doing the job well, the translator may disappear into the text.

Resting Snow Leopard Credit: Assam, Creative License

A beautiful series of unending acts. Sometimes a translator sits down at a desk and respectfully makes the alchemy happen that slowly turns this text into another one. Other times translating is walking in the marsh or washing dishes or listening to students who’ve faced guns pointed at them merely because their skin is Black. Sometimes translating is resting.

In a world that worships this-or-that, one thing over another, translation is neither and both and something else entirely, all at once. Its essential nature is on the move. “Across and beyond,” trans places, trans times, trans people, it magically carries meaning and beauty and joy between multiple complex points, existing everywhere and nowhere.

Always in complex motion, and outside simplistic categorizing. Translators may be patted on the head and called “clever,” or praised for their “areas of expertise,” but only 44% of books carry their translator’s name on the front cover. That’s from Pamela Paul’s “Stop Pretending All Books Are Written in English” (May 29, 2022, NYT). Thankfully, Jennifer Croft, Jhumpa Lahiri, and many others are pointing out this “unique form of neglect.”

Author, critic, and translator working from Polish, Ukrainian, and Argentine Spanish, Croft asserts, “[I]t’s still considered almost a threat to name anyone other than the author.” Croft’s own Man Booker International Prize-winning translation of Olga Tokarczuk’s Flights doesn’t have Translated from the Polish by Jennifer Croft on the front cover, and Croft resolved, “I’m not translating any more books without my name on the cover” (Oct. 15, 2021, PW).

You’d also not know that the novelist and translator Jhumpa Lahiri translated Domenico Starnone’s novel Trust, because you don’t see Translated from the Italian by Jhumpa Lahiri on the front cover. Lahiri argues in Translating Myself and Others: “Translators are often described as being invisible, discreet, self-sacrificing presences. Their names are frequently absent on book covers; their roles are meant to be supportive. . . . Indeed, feminist scholars have argued that the practice of translation corresponds to traditional feminine archetypes in which a woman’s position and identity were subservient to a man’s” (May 12, 2022, TCC).

Lahiri adds that writing and translating are “two aspects of the same activity, two faces of the same coin, or maybe two strokes, that allow me to swim greater distances, and at greater depths” (May 29, 2022, NYT). Isn’t that superlative, I think to myself, another third way to look at the creative process that is writing and translating.

In the lyrical This Little Art translator and author Kate Briggs explores that third way in writing. Her book is fun to read, even if you don’t care about translation one bit, if you just love words and history and joy and walking around in Europe. My favorite books are genre-bursting, like Briggs’ essay, scholarship, novel, poetry, and philosophy all rolled into beautiful words, words you like, words I take in like I eat barbeque potato chips. Happily, simply.

I am blushingly, deeply in love with words. I admit it. When I translate, the sound of the words and their rhythms matter to me as much as their meanings.

As a kind friend and colleague, also a professional editor, pointed out to me recently, I am not likely meant to say, as on the About webpage I remade recently: “Carmen is the author of x-number-of books,” if some are translations. Aren’t translations books?

When my translation of Practice of the Presence is published by Broadleaf Books, I will have worked on, written, revised, translated, been translated by, and put my body, mind, heart, and soul into ten books, not even counting time invested in reissues, new editions, Audible releases, and the like, and even so, I can’t say I’m the author of ten books? Ah, words. Ah, world.

When I think of translating a work from one language and one time period into English and now, I think of how my “whole life” is in that translating, in the writing and in the high-serious play and joy of the countless little acts. I’m looking up innumerable etymologies of words, lovingly finding old dictionaries that offer words in their timely habitats of sentences from that period so I can see how they were used then. I’m also studying history and who knew Paris experienced a Little Ice Age and then floods in the late seventeenth-century.

And I’m letting the words and their meanings “happen” to me by entering into the entire wisdom of the work that translates me, so where past translations of Nicolas Herman see a word like bonté in French and just hear “goodness,” as a binary-system antithesis of “evil,” the Spirit shows me the “kindness” that exists outside a binary view and that is omnipresent in Brother Lawrence’s teaching. Which helps us create all sorts of relationships that Haraway sees as kinships she calls oddkins. These relationships include animals, trees, and yes, relationships human-to-human, with each other.

Noble laureate Olga Tokarczuk in the essay “Ognosia” translated from Polish by Jennifer Croft, calls this “multiorganismicity” (June 6, 2022), at Words Without Borders: “Complexity, multiplicity, diversity, mutual influence, metasymbiosis—these are the new perspectives from which we observe the world.” This essay is a must-read.

Alice Walker dedicates The Color Purple:

“To the Spirit: / Without whose assistance / Neither this book / Nor I / Would have been / Written.”

That dedication speaks to me and my experience of translating. How I best listen to the palpable silence. With my body, mind, heart, and soul alert to the Spirit, who seems a friend, and the Spirit is also my body, mind, heart, and soul, a third way, a fourth way, a fifth way opening. Way opens, meaning kindness.

Translation is how I find my way to more kindness.

Translating is bodyful. A term I take from Christine Caldwell’s Bodyfulness (Shambhala). New days need new terms. New ways of being-awake need new words.

Bodyfulness is her neologism. Caldwell says, “The body isn’t a thing we have but an experience we are” (xxv). She calls bodyfulness “attention during action,” “a purposeful and athletic ability to alter our attentional focus” so that “the amount and type of sensations we work with can be nourishing and deeply informative.”

Body as experience is a complex process of my capillaries, my acetylcholinesterase, my toes, my thinking, the water I drink, my breathing, grief, tears, saying sorry, meaning it and changing, my listening, my joy that we have the right to vote and have our votes counted, my worries for America, my love for others, my love for my self, the tang of coffee, the getting up, the sitting down, the walking, the snowy egrets, and always the dancing.

Caldwell is wise like Haraway. She says, “Humans invent words because we need language to articulate and share our experience with others, yet our words also actively shape how we perceive and move in the world.”

When a friend asked me to write down my translation philosophy recently, I thought, Translation philosophy? because until that moment I translated almost unselfconsciously, but when I sat down to do the task my friend suggested, out came the words embodied mysticism, which after reading Caldwell became bodyful mysticism. I translate because I love words and wisdom and kindness and self-compassion and changing and making community. Because I actually love making space in me for listening to an other, and then sharing their beauty, and it’s a puzzle I respect and it makes me sway and shimmy and spin . . . with myself and others.

Mysticism is not an elite word. Though it’s become rarefied. Treated like champagne when it’s really clean water and oxygen. It merely means my translation listens for mystery and makes room for mystery and respects mystery and honors mystery and opens for the kind Other in others, which cannot be worded, just as the mystic Marguerite Porete’s Loing Près is a Far Nearness happily decentering-Me while embracing me, and I others. This is the Something More healer Ann Bedford Ulanov often mentions, the Source of the Source.

Mysticism is ordinary. It’s a cup of tea, its steam rising. It’s not exclusive. Not housed in institutions. It’s certainly no gatekeeper. It’s a cup of coffee, its steam rising. It’s my breath on a cold day. Your breath. It’s working to make sure everyone can breathe.

Translation is also making oddkins. A portmanteau from Old Norse oddi, “third or additional number,” and Old English cynn, “family,” plus a soupçon of Octavia Butler’s parables, this neologism articulates Haraway’s vision of surprising ways of kin-making. She sees kin as “a wild category” that people “do their best to domesticate” but can’t. Oddkins expresses our need for “unexpected collaborations and combinations,” for “becom[ing]-with each other or not at all.” Making oddkins is “cultivating multispecies justice” among humans, dolphins, ants, corals of the seas and lichens of the land, orchids, bees, you name it.

Living on “Terra” during “disturbing” and “mixed-up” times, Haraway describes our “task” as learning to respond well by inventive kin-making, finding connections with each other, even though as humans we’re all a little “bumptious,” which is a sweet way of saying obnoxious, or as Merriam-Webster‘s puts it: “presumptuously, obtusely, and often noisily self-assertive.” Aren’t we all.

She sees oddkinning as a “practice,” a “response-ability” to make a “thick, ongoing present.” Echoing the wise Georgia Congressman John Lewis, she says, “Our task is to make trouble, to stir up potent response to devastating events, as well as to settle troubled waters and rebuild quiet places.” She teaches that “staying with the trouble” requires not focusing on an “awful or edenic” past nor an “apocalyptic or salvific” future, but instead on “learning to be truly present.”

“Learning to be truly present” is what Practice of the Presence is about. I spent the quarantine summer of 2020 and beyond in seventeenth-century Paris with Brother Lawrence, translating solidly. This dedication of my time deepened my lifelong walk with this simple practice that heals complexly. When out of the blue on June 9th, someone who read my translation of the Cloud of Unknowing, also a Companion of Julian of Norwich emailed me a gut-wrenching breath prayer: Slowly inhale, I can’t breathe and slowly out, Come, Spirit.

George Floyd’s presence is in Practice of the Presence too. So is Ahmaud Arbery’s and Breonna Taylor’s. As I translated, I began seeing Brother Lawrence, disabled veteran and an unremarkable Carmelite friar then, slipping into his self-repaired sandals, picking up a homemade #LesViesNoiresComptent sign, and marching down the rue de Vaugirard, with a profound limp.

Making oddkins happens where, when, how? Here, now, being present. Haraway translates her vision into a new word. To learn to be present and stay with what Lewis names “trouble,” Haraway renames our present age, seeing the traditional term for our “current geological age,” Anthropocene, as limited, limiting. For our “transformative . . . timeplace” Haraway makes the “simple word” Chthulucene, pronounced, / ˈTHOO luh scene / (Staying with the Trouble: Making Kin in the Chthulucene).

Chthulucene envisions our present moment, with its “vastly unjust patterns of pain and joy,” as the time “to make trouble” by “staying with the trouble . . . [through] learning to be truly present.” Chthulucene is the present moment where we take the third way of sym-poiesis, or making-with all other creatures. Haraway believes, “We become-with each other or not at all.” That’s why she coined Chthulucene by marrying the Greek khthôn/χθών or “earth,” with kainos/καινός or “now . . . thick, ongoing presence.” (Which is very much what the friar’s practicing the presence is: “being present now on earth.”)

Brits keep the initial “k” for χ, but mostly it’s dropped from khthôn/χθών, and the word starts with θ or “th.” A fun word to say, it’s also beautiful. It lands on the tongue like life and love: / ˈTHOO luh scene /. Its sound doesn’t match its looks, which is just the kind of vertigo love makes. Like the word kin, Chthulucene is a “wild category” open to untold healthy possibilities. It’s more inclusive and generates more joy and more opportunities to connect in “unexpected collaborations and combinations,” rather than Anthropocene, which centers man in anthro and excludes other creatures.

We’re all kin and wildly, wonderfully odd. We’re here now, on earth, made of dust, together.

And as my very bones know, translation is a process some may also call, yes, love.