Journey-work of the Stars

He sat in his wheelchair in front of the computer screen, intently gazing at the brightly colored images before him. A retired space engineer, he is now a hospice patient residing at a local long-term care facility. Only able to speak haltingly and with few words, his frustration is palpable as he seeks to give voice to his brilliant mind. I know that he can't be rushed; that he requires a patient, attentive listening presence, and that given sufficient space, he will share what is on his mind.

This week the space shuttle Atlantis docked with the Hubble Space Telescope to replace its batteries and gyroscopes, install two cameras and attempt to repair two broken science instruments. I shared this news with my patient and watched as he became visibly excited, his eyes widening. 

It was then that I wheeled him over to the computer and googled images of deep space captured by the Hubble. He uttered exclamations of awe and delight as I pulled up one image after another--star clusters, spiral galaxies and supernova remnants. For a few moments his frustration was gone and he was alert and attentive with every fiber of his being.

In his blog Science Musings, Chet Raymo, professor emeritus of astronomy and physics at Stonehill College, writes of this sense of awe opened up by the incomprehensibly vast infinitude of space. His conclusion draws us to celebrate the gift of the close-at-hand:

As I calculate it, it would take 16 million Hubble Ultra Deep Field Photographs to cover the entire celestial sphere. At 10,000 galaxies per photograph, we are talking 160 billion galaxies that the same application of technology might potentially reveal.

What I find most astonishing is that a big bus-sized telescope floating in space can be precisely pointed at such a tiny part of the sky during 400 orbits of the Earth. Makes me proud to be part of a species that can pull off such a feat -- a species that includes everyone from the chief project designer to the machinist who cuts widget no. 35, 347.

Having taken aboard a universe of 160 billion galaxies, how would I answer the BIG questions?

Who am I? With Whitman I say: I am the journey-work of stars.

Where did I come from? I am the product of 13.7 billion years of cosmic evolution.

Why am I here? The universe is silent. Each of us must decide for oneself. Some of us choose to take our answer from popes, televangelists, ayatollahs, or holy books. For myself: I am here to pay attention and to celebrate what I see.

And I didn't need the Hubble Ultra Deep Field Photograph to come to these conclusions. With Whitman: "...the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and the egg of the wren..."

(From Science Musings; February 11,2006; Google Image Photo: Orion Nebula from Hubble Telescope)

Long-Lost Home

In preparing for a workshop this weekend I'm calling Zen Gifts for Christians, I came across this favorite quote from Peter Matthiessen:

Zen has been called “the religion before religion,” which is to say that anyone can practice, even those committed to another faith. And the phrase evokes that natural religion of our early childhood, when heaven and a splendorous earth were one. For the new child in the light of spring, there is no self to forget; the eye with which he sees God, in Meister Eckhart’s phrase, is the eye with which God sees him. But that clear eye is soon clouded over by ideas and opinions, preconceptions and abstractions, and simple being becomes encrusted with the armor of ego. Not until years later does an instinct come that a vital sense of mystery has been withdrawn. The sun glints through the pines, and the heart is pierced in a moment of beauty and strange pain, like a memory of paradise…. That day we become seekers without knowing that we seek, and at first, we long for something “greater” than ourselves, something far away. It is not a return to childhood, for childhood is not a truly enlightened state; yet to seek one’s own true nature is, as one Zen master has said, “a way to lead you to your long-lost home." 

(From the Foreword to Zen Meditation in Plain English; John Daishin Buksbazen; Wisdom Publications)

(DSH Photo: Early Morning Light; 2007)

First Crew Race

The summer before my freshman year at Boston University, I received a recruiting letter from the head coach of the crew team. Apparently, I was the right height and weight for their heavyweight freshman boat. Little did he know what poor shape I was in, having spent the previous four years of high school studiously avoiding sports of any kind, preferring instead to hang-out with my hippie friends in the school's art studio. The jocks on campus called me "magilla gorilla," after the corpulent protaganist of the animated series by the same name, who spent hours languishing in the window of Mr. Peeble's pet store eating bananas.

Anyway, rowing on the Charles River sounded cool, so I gave it a try. Little did I know what was in store for me. Working out on the river, indoors on the ergometer, and spending the winters lifting weights and running stairs, the later exercise with twenty pounds of sand sealed in an old halved rubber inner tube draped on my shoulders, I got in shape real fast. I subsequently transferred to Amherst College in my sophomore year and spent three more years rowing, earning my varsity letter. 

Imagine how delighted and proud I was when my daughter Anna, a sophomore at the Waynflete School in Portland, rowed in her first crew race yesterday. When she rowed away in her novice four to the starting line, tears came to my eyes.

So what if Waynflete came in next to last? They hung in there throughout the race, despite the stroke catching a crab in the first 100 meters. Anna was a happy girl when she got out of the boat and hoisted it up to her shoulders, walking it back to the rear with her teammates. Afterwards, I gave her a big hug and told her what a great job she did.

There's a rowing club around here somewhere, isn't there? Maybe it's time to get back in a boat myself. 

(DSH Photo: Anna, Meghan, and Hannah before the race; Amoskeag Rowing Club, Hooksett, NH; May 9, 2009)

The Story of My Love

All that a man has to say or do that can possibly concern mankind, is in some shape or other to tell the story of his love,--to sing; and, if he is fortunate and keeps alive, he will be forever in love. Thoreau's Journal 6 May 1854 (From The Blog of Henry David Thoreau)

To tell the story of my love. This is my Great Commandment. To love God is to love what I love with utter abandon. To love God in all that I love. Even more--to love God as all that I love. This sound of rain on my windowpane. This cardinal singing at dawn. This human being before me grieving over the loss of a loved one. How could it be otherwise? To have it any other way is to love God in the abstract.

I trust that this blog is all about telling the story of my love. In no other way can it be of concern to you, my readers.

(DSH Photo: Workshop Flowers: July, 2005)

The Road goes ever on and on

Glendalough (Gleann Dá Loch, “Valley of the Two Lakes”) is an ancient monastic settlement in a spectacular natural setting just an hour south of Dublin. The monastery was founded by St. Kevin, a hermit monk who died about 618 AD. The extensive ruins of Glendalough include several early churches, a graceful round tower, and various sites associated with the life of St. Kevin.

In the photo, Bekah, Sukie and Anna walk to the Upper Lake where the foundation of St. Kevin's cell is located. (Anna is now taller than her mother and her sister.) The title of the post comes from J.R.R Tolkien. A song originally composed by Bilbo Baggins, it appears in the Hobbit and in other versions in the Lord of the Rings.

(DSH Photo: Bekah, Sukie, and Anna at Glendalough, Co. Wicklow, Ireland; April, 2003)

Holy Well

Sukie and I are approaching the fourth anniversary of an impromptu trip to Ireland in May of 2005. By "impromptu," I mean that three or four weeks before we departed, this journey had not been contemplated. At least not by me. As it turned out, Sukie had been working diligently behind the scene.  

One afternoon, while the girls were still at school, she presented  me with a document entitled "A Modest Proposal."  She read it aloud, requesting that I not comment until she had finished. She had carefully outlined a five day getaway to the west coast of Ireland, specifically to the Burren in County Clare. We had visited the area with the girls in 2003, while on sabbatical from St. Bart's.

On the surface, Sukie's proposal was proposterous. Without prior planning, we were to drop our parish work for a week. She had asked a neighbor, only hours home from college, to stay with the girls. Fortunately for us, she was both available and willing. And then there was the little detail of how it was all going to be paid for. But in my heart, I knew her proposal was sound in a way that transcended practical considerations.

The past year had been challenging. We were both struggling vocationally and our passion for parish ministry was fast waning. One of my parishioners advised me to read William Styron's book Darkness Visible: A Memoir of Madness, thinking that I was clinically depressed. Another parishioner was unhappy (to say the least) that I had not enthusiastically endorsed her desire to be ordained. She felt no reluctance about letting me know, and everyone else, of her disgruntlement. My relationship with my beloved organist and choir director was under strain, as there had been considerable miscommunication over politically sensitive parish issues. Sukie's and my marriage was suffocating under the weight of a job that we had shared for over fourteen years.

We landed at Shannon airport on Thursday, May 19th. Our destination was the Burren Oaks Farm Accommodation. Burren means "stony place" and refers to the roughly 150 square miles of bare carboniferous limestone mountains and sheltered valleys of pasture land along Galway Bay.

Just a short walk to the west from our B+B was the 12th century Cistercian foundation Sancta Maria de Petra Fertilis--St. Mary of the Fertile Rock-- familiarly known as Corcomroe Abbey. And down a long farm lane to the southeast, in the midst of a verdant valley nestled between Oughtmama and Turlough Hills, the ancient ruins of the three Oughtmama Churches (1000 CE)--once a monastic enclosure with evidence of a village nearby-- stood among hazel shrubs. From the slopes of the surrounding hills, one could see out, past the ruins of the Abbey, to the blue ocean of Ballyvaughan Bay

We awoke early the next morning and went in search of the churches, which we at last discovered, having traversed several walled muddy fields adorned with cow patties. One of the fields I crossed was inhabited by a surly bull that, to my imminent peril, I discovered only at the last minute. Other more docile cattle grazed just outside the extensive ruins, these well preserved buildings far flung from any human habitation. A locked gate barred the way from entering the sanctuary of the largest church. 

In asking our hosts about the Oughtmama Churches, we discovered that Mike owned and farmed the land on which the churches stood. He had a key to the sanctuary gate and offered it to us. We returned to the churches several times over the next few days and, as far afield as we went in our explorations of the Burren, that quiet green valley was the heart of what became much more than a casual trip to Ireland. In a deeper sense, it was a sacred journey, a pilgrimage.

On our last day, we scheduled a walk with John Connolly of Burren Wild Walking Tours. John's farmhouse was just down the road from our accommodation and we walked out his backdoor to the foot of Oughtmama Hill. John was a young man, physically tough but also bright and well spoken, with values other than "worshipping the Almighty Euro." Having grown up Roman Catholic, he had not practiced in many years. And yet, he had an innate sense of spirituality and was intrigued that Sukie and I were both clergy.

As we climbed the hill, he pointed out evidence of the "lazy beds"--potato beds planted during the mid-19th century famine in hopes of escaping the potato blight down in the valleys. He noted many cairns erected by the British as aids to surveying the area and the many stonewalls built by the poor during the famine. (The walls themselves served no purpose other than to keep the destitute employed, as the mountain grazing of cattle was communal.) He showed us traces of a horseshoe shaped trough of burnt stones. It was a bronze age cooking site--fulacht fian in Gaelic.

As we walked, we shared our stories with John. He listened attentively. Picking up on my unease about work, he asked: "Are you happy with the choice you made for your life?" I was astounded that he had seen into my soul so quickly.

Finally, John brought us to a holy well on the western slope of Oughtmama Hill--Tobar Colman--named after St. Colman Mac Duagh (550-632CE), a monastic who, having lived in a cave as a hermit for many years, settled Kilmacduagh, a monastery with a now famous leaning round tower. John said that the well had healing properties, especially for poor eyesight. A gnarled ash tree--daily buffeted by the winds off the bay-- stood by the open well marked by a stone enclosure amongst dense hawthorne shrubs.

Sukie stepped down into the well and paused for a moment, cupping the fresh clear water in her hands and dousing her face. I held back, reluctant to do the same, my rational self wanting no truck with the "miraculous." Leaning on his walking stick, John quietly gazed my way and said: "You've got to have faith."

I stepped down into the cool moss covered enclosure of the well and washed my face.

My eyesight has actually grown much worse over the intervening years from our trip to Ireland down to the present. But the grace of the vision with which I was blessed at the holy well on the slopes overlooking that verdant valley has stayed with me. We left St. Bart's six months later, not knowing what might befall us. 

We leapt into the unknown, relying on faith alone.

(DSH Photo: Oughtmama Church, Bell Harbour, Co. Clare, Ireland; May, 2005)

A Rare Sighting

I'm just back from a Saturday morning birdwalk with Derek Lovitch who, with his wife Jeanette, are proprietors of the Freeport Wild Bird Supply. A large group of us gathered at 8AM and went over to the Bayview Estuary Preserve in Yarmouth. The preserve encompasses thirty-five acres of undeveloped land along the Royal River, including one-half mile of river frontage, forested uplands, and salt and freshwater wetlands. 

Surveying the marsh along the river front, Derek spotted what he presumed to be a Marbled Godwit, an exceptionally rare sighting in the spring along the coast of Maine. He sent one of the group to fetch his spotting scope from the car, as Derek wondered whether the bird might even be a Bar-tailed Godwit, an even greater rarity, perhaps even a Maine record. The bird flew across the river and settled on the mudflat on the far shore to feed among several Greater Yellowlegs. On closer examination, Derek confirmed that it was the Marbled Godwit.

For many, if not most in the group, it was a life bird. As I refer now to my nifty Cornell Laboratory Of Ornithology Birder's Life List and Diary, I note that I have not previously seen the Marbled Godwit. (I saw its cousin, the Hudsonian Godwit, at the Parker National Wildlife Refuge on Plum Island in July of 1989.) So it's a life bird for me as well!

A large shorebird with a long, upturned two-toned bill, the Marbled Godwit breeds in the northern prairies and winters along the coasts. We lined up at Derek's scope, waiting for a better look at the bird. Satisfied that we had all had a good look, we moved on up into the woods and along the freshwater pond where we saw several species of warblers: Black-and- white, Yellow-rumped, Palm, Black-throated Green, and Ovenbird. The usual suspects--Red-breated Nuthatch, White-breasted Nuthatch, Titmouse, Chickadee, Hairy Woodpecker, Goldfinch, Purple Finch--were all out in great abundance. Tree swallows dove for insects as they cruised along the marsh. Red-winged blackbirds kept sentinel on fenceposts by the river front. We could hear a Kingfisher "rattling" in the distance. And an added treat: nine painted turtles sunny themselves on a log in the pond.

(Photo from Google Image. Not this morning's bird.)