Tag: richardrohr

Eclipse

Posted on | by Carmen Butcher

Ancestors of eclipse, the word, intimate a feeling of abandonment. That has captured my imagination today on #eclipse day.

At heart, eclipse is a sorrowful kind of word, rooted in “absence.” Its Ancient Greek forefather ἔκλειψις / ékleipsis means “forsake.” Even older, the Proto-Indo-European root *leikw- for “leave” hides in eclipse. This *leikw- combines with ex- and creates “leave out, fail to appear, abandon.” Eclipse.

As if the sun could abandon us.

Wait. Have you read Brian McLaren’s Life After Doom? Bill McKibben’s The End of Nature? Jeanine M. Canty’s Returning the Self to Nature?

Eclipse is a word expressing relationship among us and nature, sun, moon, all creatures. How much we love the sun, though it’s easy to forget when life is mediated by our screens.

The charlock mustard that I noticed in the marsh early today is as yellow as and as dependent on the sun as are we all, including the various small white butterflies’ larvae who feed on the mustard plant.

“Do you think there is anything not attached by its unbreakable cord to everything else?” Mary Oliver keeps asking. That’s from one of her essays included in Parabola, Spring 2022.

An eclipse is a poignant reminder of our interconnectedness.

Indra’s Net comes to mind. It originated in Hinduism and the deva Indra who’s associated with rain and storms, and then Buddhism took it in. It’s this beautiful infinite net hung with a single sparkling jewel at every point of connection, so there are infinite jewels. If we could look at just one of these star-bright jewels up close, we would see reflected there all of the other jewels in the net, infinite in number, and so on, as we went from jewel to jewel. It is a wonderful image of infinitely repeating interconnectedness among all creatures and creations in the cosmos.

I’d like to make a call to enter into a more mindful relationship with words, too. Anyone can explore words at etymonline.com/. It’s free and based on reliable sources.

As a pre-teen suffering from undiagnosed dyslexia, I kept failing Reader’s Digest vocabulary quizzes. I began looking up words’ roots. Knowing these helped words stay more still on the page, made reading less impossible. Pretty much daily I’m thankful to have had an early and unquenchable desire to read even when I couldn’t.

Word histories sometimes scare people because they’re called etymologies. But etymology itself has an etymology. Etymon means “true.” And while words’ definitions change (YAY!), knowing a word’s first roots is a lot like viewing the baby pictures of someone you love. You can’t get enough of how they looked when they couldn’t even talk yet and when there’s a photo of them with red spaghetti sauce smeared all over their baby face.

I say “YAY!” because words’ definitions change because humans change. That we and language are capable of change gives me grounds for hope.

Etymologies are also words’ ancestors. Once you start exploring them, you start seeing how many words are relatives of each other. Indra’s Net again. You just have to pause and make a habit of looking up words in etymonline.com/. Soon it will be a bit like eating potato chips, except healthier. One more word.

Look and see how eclipse has so many siblings. To name a few, it would hold family reunions with: delinquent, derelict, eleven, loan, relic, relinquish, reliquiae, and twelve. The Proto-Indo-European root *leikw- for “leave” or “left” forms all or part of delinquent: leave completely/(de-); derelict: leave back/(re-) completely/(de-); eleven: one left (over 10); loan: left with someone “as promise of future return”; relic: left back or behind/(re-); relinquish: leave behind/(re-); reliquiae: leave back or behind/(re-); and twelve: two left (over 10). They’re all to do with “leaving” or being “left”! It’s beginning to sound like a country song.

Searching further in the Cosmic Baby Book for Words, aka the Oxford English Dictionary (OED), we read this etymology for eclipse: “Old French eclipse, esclipse, < Latin eclīpsis, Greek ἔκλειψις, noun of action < ἐκλείπειν to be eclipsed, literally to forsake its accustomed place, fail to appear.” The ἐκλείπω / ekleípō is “I abandon, I go missing, I vanish,” from ἐκ / ek “out” and λείπω / leípō “I leave behind.”

When I learned today that eclipse has French roots from the twelfth century CE, I wondered: How might someone have felt around that time when an eclipse happened? Probably not unlike diverse people do today. One article of a zillion is here.

NASA notes that there were 250 solar eclipses during the 1100’s CE. That NASA has a FREE Five Millennium Catalog of Solar Eclipses overjoys the nerd in me. More here. The longest annular solar eclipse happened on January 16, 1116 CE, and the longest total solar eclipse occurred on July 11 that very same year, 1116 CE. The first one lasted 10 minutes and 27 seconds, and the summer one was 6 minutes and 46 seconds of eclipse.

Let’s imagine. Without a cell phone / smart phone constantly in hand, did a European in 1116 CE have an edge on interconnectedness with nature? We do have more screens between us and nature now.

But wait. Feudalism and manorialism were flourishing then, so likely I and many more would’ve been part of the 80-90% of serfs holding sickles instead, which it can be argued is where the plutocracy wants to return the world.

In fact, Matthew Desmond’s Poverty, By America asks, “Why is there so much poverty in America?” Or, as theologian Walter Brueggemann’s work argues, Why isn’t this poverty and America’s systemic inequity the central questions of Christianity? Desmond shows “how some lives are made small so that others may grow” in the U.S., and his argument challenges us to become “poverty abolitionists.”

Resolving our divorce from nature seems central.

Philosopher Bayo Akomolafe points out how the “highly venerated Oxford English Dictionary” defines nature as “[t]he phenomena of the physical world collectively; esp. plants, animals, and other features and products of the earth itself, as opposed to humans.”

For emphasis, he repeats the unhealthy binary in this definition: “…as opposed to humans.”

We are brought up thinking that dictionaries set the definitions and that what we find in a dictionary is THE definition of a word. We’ve been taught to treat dictionaries as sacrosanct. But excellent lexicographers and dictionaries don’t determine words’ definitions. Humans do. Dictionaries are meant to record current uses of words. Linguist John Algeo taught me that. There’s even one dictionary, Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary of English Usage where word squabbles are recorded. Its tagline: “The complete guide to problems of confused or disputed usage.” In fact, here you learn that one of the most stigmatized words ever in English, “ain’t,” used to be viewed as acceptable, even preferred usage. It ain’t a lie—I did a paper on it in graduate school for John!

Akomolafe was approached by a group campaigning for a new definition of “nature” in our dictionaries, because they had noticed, as he says, “the perceived separateness between humans and nature – especially in the so-called Global North” (LinkedIn, January 23, 2024). Akomolafe argues that this illusion of separateness “has contributed in no small way to the extractive cultures that are folded into the lingering troubles of the Anthropocene.” This group asked him for his own definition, which, he says, “they’d hope might dislodge the centrality of the brutal humanism implied in the official descriptions of ‘nature’.”

Akomolafe offered this definition: “A theoretical, economic, political, and theological designation from the Enlightenment era that attempts to name the material world of trees, ecologies, animals, and general features and products of earth as separate from humans and human society, largely in a bid to position humans as masters over material forces, independent and capable of transforming the world for their exclusive ends.”

His coda? “It’s as far as I could go without waxing poetic about nature as a colonial trope for biopolitical interventions. What felt important to say was that ‘nature’ is a performative, speculative gesture, a ritual of relations that rehearses a dissociation from the world. A subjectivizing force. A lounge in the terminal of the radioactive Human.”

Thank you, Bayo Akomolafe, for this wisdom.

The etymology of eclipse starts looking anthropomorphic.

We no longer have a geocentric model of the cosmos. Isn’t it time we stopped having an anthrocentric model of ‘nature’?

Freesia

Posted on | by Carmen Butcher | 2 Comments on Freesia

When I was living in Germany, studying at Heidelberg University, I was suffering from anorexia, undiagnosed. My family was experiencing the trauma of my father’s illness, and we were all doing the best we could to survive. I didn’t fully understand yet how dangerous this time was, but I did begin trying to eat well. Sometimes succeeding, sometimes not, but inching forward to wellness, it was very hard, and every tiny success was huge.

I remember I had a handwritten list taped to the back of my closet door in my small two-person dorm room in Neuenheimer Feld, to keep track of showering, to make sure I did regularly. I was living with high-functioning depression, also undiagnosed, and it was exhausting. In spite of these deeply painful and confusing experiences, there were also moments of joy. It was my first time in another country, I was there on a meager but bountiful to me Rotary Graduate Scholarship, and I was trying to learn German, which made me very happy. I had met the Buschbecks in Heidelberg, and they took took me in, and also I came to know the Schusters of Ernsbach, my sweet roommate’s family.

That’s how I came to be in Ernsbach visiting Gundi’s family, who also took me in. I’m forever grateful. They treated me with great kindness. They cooked and baked the most delicious food like roast potatoes, delicate and delicious feldsalat or Rapunzel Lettuce, the very best homemade French onion soup, rabbit, Spätzle, and more, including Lebkuchen. I healed eating their food in the warm-hearted home nestled in Baden-Württemberg.

One day, to welcome the international student and her sister’s roommate, Marianne walked across the village with a fresh bouquet of multicolored freesia, to her parents’ house. This was all happening in German, so I was translating in my mind as she told me what they were. I was still in that stage of translating what was said to me rather than just hearing and understanding, which thankfully came later, owing to kind Germans living with my then halting German. I have an image of accepting Marianne’s flowers outside, for some reason. I remember Ernsbach as a greening place of beech, hornbeams, sycamores, maples, ash, oaks, birch, and of course deep emerald spruce and fir trees, and in my memory I am standing there accepting this extraordinary and thoughtful gift, surrounded by friendly trees, and I couldn’t believe how beautiful they smelled. I’d never heard of, much less smelled and seen freesia before.

Wood sorrel, however, is what I seem to grow best in California. It lines the spaces under the watermelon-pink crepe myrtle trees in front of our home. We keep trying to make that space grow succulents, Sean and I have planted and tended many there, and they do grow, but wild wood sorrel with its tall yellow blooms grows best there.

But someone who lived here before us left one yellow freesia under the holly tree next to our house and beside the geranium bush. Every spring this lone freesia is the first to bloom, and I developed a ritual where I would go over every day when I go out and bend to smell its perfume and spend a few moments just marveling at it, and remembering.

But this year it didn’t seem to bloom. I was extra busy teaching, having conversations with students, marking their papers and other work, attending faculty meetings at UC Berkeley, etc., and also having very many wonderful conversations with my kind, warm-hearted, and brilliant friends at the Center for Action and Contemplation (CAC), founded by the Franciscan friar and ecumenical teacher Richard Rohr. Since the fall I have been participating as an affiliate faculty along with Randy Woodley and others, making the Essentials of Engaged Contemplation course. Conversations with Randy, Barbara Holmes, Brian McLaren, Drew Jackson, Gigi Ross, Jennifer Tompos, Jim Finley, Mike Petrow, Paul Swanson, Richard Rohr, and others have been a course in itself, and a healing through belonging and community.

So the very edible wood sorrel aka weeds outgrew my interest in or time for pulling them. They were approaching knee height when I stopped to fully realize how much I missed my freesia. Every spring this freesia’s delicate, bright yellow fragrance sparkles under the holly’s red berries and spiny green leaves and near the spicy- and green-smelling geranium with its red blooms. We were also left pearl calla lilies in this small patch. I welcome these every spring as they shoot up. A couple of years ago, I sowed orange California poppies. Just recently, the holly’s small cream-colored flowers attracted bees, that yearly ritual I never miss. I watch them from our front step or out the little window there, so focused on their nectar gathering and nothing else. I’ve worked the soil underneath that small tree, as my mother taught me, and I love watching everything sprout, grow tall, bloom, and then fade. The stages are all very beautiful to me.

Often when I gaze on our holly, I think how I remembered not long ago that Acevedo means “a holly grove,” the “holly” is azevo and the “grove” is edo. It’s a surname that originates in Portugal and through colonization to Spain and from there, for my family, to Cuba. I say “remembered” because my best friend tells me that she told me that years ago. I believe her.

So yesterday I was out in that patch under the holly, pulling wood sorrel. Again, I have to say it again, because it has been so remarkable. The rains this season made everything grow faster than imaginable. And thankfully pulling weeds with such a thoroughly soaked ground is like cutting through fudge, smooth, easy, delicious. They come right up.

I learn so much when bending to the soil. Just the smell of earth makes me wiser, I think. I mean it reminds me of my place in all of this, that interconnectedness. Bending to pull up weeds or dig up those bulbs that are outside of the enclosure and moving them to a new spot where they can grow without fear of the lawnmower’s blades—that bending feels like I’m bowing to earth, thank you, thank you.

I learn so much also because the wood sorrel and the orange poppies are totally intertwined. I have to be careful not to pull up poppies with the wood sorrel, and sometimes, even being careful, I do. As I’m doing that, bending and with gloves on trying to find only the wood sorrel to pull up, I think of the wise parable of the weeds from Matthew 13:24 and on. It seems to teach the mind and heart of compassion. First of all, wood sorrel has worth, you can eat it for one thing, and it is beautiful too, and who is to say what is weed and what is flower? In this parable Jesus says to let the weeds and the wheat grow together. It reminds me to be compassionate first with myself, for the wood sorrel and poppies intertwined within me, along with the star thistle, prickly lettuce, and hedgeparsley with its stick-to-your-socks seeds.

I grew up with the eradicate your prickly lettuce mentality. Know the good and fight and rid yourself of the bad. This grew the perfectionist mindset in me.

This teaching from Jesus doesn’t mean it’s okay to be unkind to my self or others, or that it’s okay to be thoughtless or selfish, but it does say that I’m a mixture of wood sorrel, prickly lettuce, orange poppies, hedgeparsley, and star thistle. I love my self with my mix of faults and kindness just as I love others with theirs.

I also have to relearn to notice and appreciate my inner freesia. This spring, again, the wood sorrel, rain-fed, shot up, juicy and strong and abundant, and the wonderful conversations I was having with so many students and friends, all my teachers, meant that I thought that my freesia had not bloomed. It was mostly the green and yellow of wood sorrel. But yesterday—voila!—as I was pulling up wood sorrel underneath the holly tree, there it was, the blooming as always bright yellow freesia, hidden underneath the abundant weeds. It has ten or more flowers already. It is heavy with them. As I pulled weeds, I had thought I kept smelling its uniquely wonderful fragrance but had told myself I was imagining things. See how you can catch the scent of goodness and kindness even if you can’t see it? My Self said to my self. So happy to be reunited with my freesia and to see it again, I carefully cleared out the space around it to give it breathing room, and I breathed in deep the aromatic earth.

I thought how my mother recently turned 87 and how fortunate we are to still have her with us. She is a gardener and I always feel close to her when I smell dirt and touch it. Because she is so humble, she is exceptionally strong and smart without advertisement, in that it’s-not-much-noticed way. She somehow nursed my father for three years through his dementia and death, she has had two bouts of Covid, and she was hospitalized for pneumonia, and nearly died two years ago. My brother and his family live with her right now, and she enjoys the extended family arrangement.

I thought as I dug and positioned a decorative stone under the freesia, to prop it up and also so I don’t lose it again, how Marianne in Ernsbach introduced me to these. Not too many years after she walked her bouquet so thoughtfully across that village to gift it to me, welcoming the stranger, she died in a tragic accident, very young, too young. It was unthinkable. I thank you, Marianne, every time I see and smell freesia anywhere, and especially the one in my front yard. Thank you.

Recently I had an experience of release that is the result of years of therapy, years of reading psychology deeply and also spiritually wise works, years of writing poetry and of translating spiritual texts like Cloud and Presence, years of steeping in scripture and wise works, recent conversations with my CAC friends, and years of kindness and love from my family and friends, all beloveds. That includes Tao our cat, and Lucky who lived to be 20, our cat friend before Tao. I let go of much recently, and I found the freesia in me, and the tears came and since I was lying in bed at the time, they ran into my ears, and these were good tears.

Though I have not been depressed for many years now, and my doctor says it is in “remission,” and I’m grateful, and though I know I am whole, I am also healing. This release recently was a major part of that ongoing healing.

I am grateful for freesia, within me and in my front garden, for freedom to be self-compassionate and others-compassionate and to grow and heal, and for the weeds.

Boats

Posted on | by Carmen Butcher

Thank you to all at my YouTube Channel https://www.youtube.com/@CarmenAcevedoButcherPresence or this blog https://youtu.be/qr6EQtIofgU and thank you to those new to reading my blog. Welcome!

Boats

This is a blog about how experiences we have remain in our memory and can gain new and deeper meaning in our lives simply because of the gift of time. The gift of time can whisper the inexplicable Presence in ways sometimes our unresolved selves could not then hear it. What happens when we pay attention to images that resurface for us, bringing joy and peace? It’s also about finding what ways contemplation happens in our life and then being true to that by simply turning up for it, again and again, imperfectly, unresolved, still questioning and evolving, only partially understanding or partially experiencing, or even sometimes not having any felt sense of God’s love. But showing up anyway, as we are.

When I was an international student at Heidelberg University, thanks to a Rotary Scholarship, I was homesick living in a dorm in Neuenheimer Feld, and many days after classes walked the hills of that lovely city, often alone. I was 22. Almost without knowing it, I fell in love with the barges sailing up the Neckar River and down it, silently, low in the water, with mostly smooth flat tops. Pencil-thin from above, they reminded me of toy boats almost or poetry in action.

A walker since my early teenage years, escaping tumult at home, my walk then was along Philosopher’s Way. The path was across the river from the magnificent ruins of the Heidelberg Castle. At various times of daylight, below me the castle’s red sandstone looked pink as sunrise against the dark green trees. Below it, always in my peripheral vision, was the city’s Old Bridge with its matching red sandstone, elegant curves, and scalloped patterning of the placid blue water.

What made these times of solitude special is that I also walked there not alone sometimes, with Frau Sophie Buschbeck as my companion. At first, “Sie” for the formal “you,” fairly soon she said, “Call me ‘Du’ [the informal ‘you’]. And Mutti Buschbeck.” And later she said: “Call me Mutti, if you wish.” She was a widow at 79, and she’d take my arm and off we went. Climbing the hills, her head down, her saying through quick puffs of breath: “You have to stay fit. You have to have hills to go up.”

I didn’t know then that my walks could be meditation. I had no awareness of that. As I was taught then, prayer was something you did with carefully chosen words, to make yourself a better person, to help you serve others better, to note make mistakes. I was raised with a policeman in my soul. Who was my god then, little g.

I had been raised to be what was called “selfless,” to think of others and their needs first, and not to think on my self. I didn’t know yet that I needed to make space for, cultivate, appreciate, and get acquainted with my self/selves/ego so that I could one day move beyond such. I was too injured to know any of this. I hadn’t yet learned how painful that is.

I used my mind as a buffer against pain. If I kept my mind busy, I could provide some numbing against a pain I couldn’t yet name. And my mind was dyslexic, so it took up quite a lot of my time to keep it busy.

But I could walk, thankfully, in the green trees above the Neckar River. Even though I was miserable, not really consciously taking in the scenery as much as unconsciously absorbing it and being immersed in it healingly. Thankfully I did have friends there who cared for me: Mutti Buschbeck, my kind roommate Gundi, the Buschbeck family who also took me in, and others I met along the path, literally, including one kind-hearted man, a dentist from another country, who took such a liking to me that after just three walks together there he asked me to marry him. I politely declined.

Looking back, I see how much walking meditation has been my path. It has been a true gift. I didn’t plan it this way. I walked because I was lonely and I loved nature, always have. Saying walking meditation is a way to pray was not in the limited vocabulary of my dogmatic evangelical upbringing. I had no idea I was doing anything “right” by walking and in fact felt that my entire life was a failure then.

I walked the way an injured animal will often find a bush and crawl into it and try to rest and heal. Call it instinct.

That I didn’t pass the language test to get into Heidelberg University and had to take remedial German courses there was just the academic component of a much larger failure health-wise, family-wise, and in every other way. I was so not at home inside myself that even every physical step was somehow painful, yet I was given the gift of getting out and walking, even so. Alone and other times with Mutti Buschbeck.

Sometimes I picture what my life might have been like had my young self heard a guest preacher say at one of the small churches I was taken to: “So contemplation is any means you use—walking meditation, rosary, mass, a 20-minute sit—any means you use—to experience this Self. . . . [That] is for me contemplation. And don’t get hung up on the posture or the program or the procedure cause I think as there are so many personalities there’s going to be many ways to experience it.” It would be decades before I heard Richard Rohr say that.

I am still watching the boats on the Neckar River come and go silently, low in the water, pencil-thin and smooth. They do not hurry. They move with ease. They do not zig or zag. They move ahead. With spaciousness. They seem to move without moving. They taught me without teaching me, I caught from them, how calmness can be lived out.

Only much later would I learn that Thomas Keating teaches something about boats. His words gave me words for what I’d learned from the Neckar.

The River is pure consciousness. This makes sense to me because I remember in graduate school walking up to my sixth-floor room after my sister had moved on to work as a nurse, and I was alone there, and I needed to forgive someone for my own sanity, and as I went to put my key in the lock and open the non-refurbished, stained wooden door to that ramshackle, tiny, but wonderfully located apartment, I felt a r(R)iver open my heart and run through my emerging selfhood.

Boats of all sizes float down this River. I remember the barges and boats of all sizes that floated down the beautiful Neckar River, a tributary of the Rhine River, and home for many terraced vineyards. Sometimes I see myself as a diver under the River. I’m not wearing any gear. Somehow I can just breathe under water, with ease. I’m sitting on a rock there below, comfortably, a good way down, and I see the boats now going by above me, some are small, some are long and large, some are medium in size. These are my thoughts. They come and go. New ones appear.

They can be anything, any thought, any feeling. In contemplation I let the boats go by. I don’t react to them or respond to them. I remember the experience of being up on Philosopher’s Way, with the quiet boats below going to and fro along the river, that feeling of being sick, lonesome, lost, and in pain, and yet also held. What a gift.

So in contemplation I don’t leave my cozy rock, swim up, and climb onto a boat, to analyze what it’s carrying, though I may feel that I’d like to. I don’t leave my rock, swim up, climb on, and ride downstream. I let it go. I let it pass by above me.

In contemplation, I don’t engage with these, I don’t judge them. I let them go. This helps me see I’m not what I’m thinking. Space opens up to discover who I am apart from my thoughts, I discover the wonder and the love that that River holds for us.

I sit on my rock, and I notice the River all around me.

Blessings to all of you friends, and thank you for being here,

Carmen