I have been thinking about moments a lot lately – those holy doorways where I am lifted out of time and I encounter the sacred in the most ordinary acts – and then a friend emailed me this video.  It has me contemplating what it is I am here to do as an artist and as a monk.

Mythologist and storyteller Michael Meade says the word “moment” comes from the Latin root momentus, which means to move.  We are moved when we touch the eternal and timeless which is available to us in each moment we are fully present. 

There is a sense of spaciousness in moments.  Art and spiritual practice are how we find this moment of eternity. Our days are filled with moments of beauty and poignancy. The task of the artist and the monk is to witness these eternal moments in a steady stream of revelation.  In this way, we are all invited to become artists and monks.  Before you watch the video, pause to breathe deeply, to slow yourself down.  As you watch be present to the feelings moving in you that each image evokes.

Which moments will you discover today?  Which moments will find you?

Text © Christine Valters Paintner at Abbey of the Arts:
Transformative Living through Contemplative & Expressive Arts

(photo of rose window at Notre Dame © Kayce Hughlett)

Mandala is the Sanskrit word for circle and the great psychologist Carl Jung called it an “archetype of wholeness.” Archetypes are those basic patterns and symbols which repeat across cultures and traditions, emerging from a collective unconscious or shared well of images.  Jung saw mandalas as expressions of the deep self’s longing for integration and a visual map toward our own spiritual centers.  He would spend time each morning creating mandalas in response to his dreams and advised his patients to do the same.

The circle is a universal symbol appearing in nature – think of the shape of the planets, moon, and sun.  It is also found across religions – think of the ancient stone circles found across Ireland or the intricate sand mandalas Tibetan Buddhist monks create.   We find it in the Catholic tradition as well.  Consider the communion wafers we partake of each week or the wedding bands which symbolize the eternal nature of that sacramental commitment as elemental expressions of the mandala form.

In churches we often find one of the more stunning displays of mandalas: the rose window.  The first rose window was created about the year 1200 originating in France and then spreading throughout European churches.  Considered part of French Gothic architecture, they are fairly characteristic of medieval churches.

The rose window functions on several different levels at once. Think about a time when you were inside a church and sunlight spilled through a stained glass window casting colored beams across the sacred space.  This interaction between light, glass, and color sparks something transcendent within us. Our hearts feel lifted in their longings for the holy. 

In rose windows, typically Christ or the Virgin Mary appears in the central rosette as the center point as an expression of our desire for and movement toward holiness.  In the petals surrounding the center may be images from the liturgical cycles and seasons of the year, the Saints and Apostles, the virtues, or sometimes the Zodiac.  These petals act as paths guiding our eyes always back to the center. It is meant to be a symbol of our own spiritual journey and how to return back to that which is most important to us.

Domed ceilings in churches are another architectural expression of this sacred form, usually having a window up to the sky in the center, allowing the light to radiate out.  Monasteries were often built around central cloisters.  These were usually square in shape because of the building wall structure, but at the center was often found a lush garden or sometimes a fountain as an expression God’s abundance and dwelling place at the center of monastic life. 

Labyrinths are sacred circle forms being rediscovered today with the most famous one at Chartres Cathedral in France. They contain a circuitous path which eventually leads to the center and are symbolic of the soul’s journey to the divine center within.  In the middle ages, labyrinths were used as metaphorical pilgrimages for those who could not journey to the holy city of Jerusalem.  Walking a labyrinth is a profoundly meditative experience, in part because the circular journey helps to integrate both sides of the brain in prayer and so frees the mind from a strictly linear way of approaching God.

Rosaries are also examples of the sacred circle as a form to support prayer. The word “rosary” comes from the Latin for “garland of roses.”  In Catholicism the rose symbolizes the Virgin Mary and the layers of petals draw our awareness toward the center.  Praying the rosary is a kinesthetic experience of holding each of the round beads between our fingers and repeating our prayers as our hands also move around the circle, offering us an experience of wholeness through both word and body.

Mandalas or sacred circles offer us a template for the interior journey to the heart of ourselves where we encounter the heart of God present as well.

Suggestions for Prayer:

Find an image of a rose window and spend some time in meditation with it. Take some time to connect with your breathing and then gaze upon the image as a tool for centering.

Pray the rosary holding the sacred circle in your awareness as you move through the beads.

Find a labyrinth near you (use the Worldwide Labyrinth Locator) and take a meditative walk to its center and back out again.  Notice how you feel as you enter and as you depart its sacred space.

© Christine Valters Paintner at Abbey of the Arts:
Transformative Living through Contemplative & Expressive Arts

Stop by this week's Poetry Party for a wonderful celebration of Summer's Sweet Slowness!

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In the heart of every Catholic Church you enter you will find the altar, the place where we celebrate Holy Communion and break bread and drink wine together. It is where we experience God breaking into the community each week. Often around the church you will also find other small altars. Perhaps there is one in front of a statue of Mary where people have left a rosary or holy card or some other offering. Another might be an altar for the dead erected for the month of November; here the community adds photos of loved ones who have died. Altars are found across traditions and cultures and essentially are places where the intentions and prayers of a person or community become concentrated. The space becomes what the Celtic peoples called a "thin place," where the boundary between heaven and earth feels especially permeable. It is at the altars we create where we meet the One who created us.

I have an altar space in my prayer corner in our living room. It is set on top of a beautiful old secretary desk that comes from my father's family and so in the last century and a half has traveled from Riga, Latvia to Vienna to New York to Sacramento to San Francisco to Berkeley to Seattle. I love the history it has and the connection to my paternal ancestors.

Inside the desk I keep my journal and books I am reading. Across the top I keep objects of significance to me that rest more permanently, like a photo of my mother who died six years ago, a carved wooden statue of Our Lady of Guadalupe, a glass cross given to me by a friend, and a candle holder.

Then there are the more temporary objects gracing this altar space, which usually reflect the season we are in, both liturgical and natural. I bring in a purple cloth for Advent or some fallen leaves for autumn, a small vase of spring flowers or a basket of hand-painted wooden eggs for Easter. Often there is a piece of art I am pondering or an icon. There is a tension here between those things that feel more permanent and enduring and those that are more fleeting, representative of our pilgrimage through time and its changing qualities.

When it is time for a new season I clear off several of these sacred items, laying them ever so carefully in a drawer, and thanking them for their wisdom and guidance so far. Then I leave space to listen for what new symbols want to dwell there and help reveal to me this next layer God is inviting me to tend. Inevitably I will discover what needs to be added. Sometimes it is a stone whose shape speaks to me of the deeper groundedness I am seeking in my life. Often it is a new image that moves something in me I can't yet name. As I place new objects that feel holy, the sacredness of my own story unfolds slowly.

Altars can be very powerful. In creating altars, we fill a personal space with the power of our own prayers, intentions, and longings. We take seriously those deep desires of our hearts that St. Ignatius of Loyola wisely said were planted there by God in the first place. We acknowledge an incarnational God who speaks through symbols and pulses through the things of our everyday lives, imbuing them with meaning. We express our faith that our prayers matter.

A personal altar is a sacred space where we can re-center and reconnect with the holy presence dwelling in our midst. It is a place to honor the desires of our lives with beauty. Altars help to give voice to the longings stirring up within us long before we can put them into words. It is an act of trust to listen to those symbols that want a place in our lives. It is a reminder that there is a greater wisdom, bigger than our daily worries and concerns.

Is there a space in your home you might devote as a tangible reminder of the presence of God? What are the symbols you would like include? What longings and prayers need symbolic expression in your life right now?

Previous articles on art and spirituality at Patheos:

Art and Spiritual Practice

Beauty and Spirituality 

Pray with Music: Audio Divina

Liturgy as a Feast for the Senses

Illuminated Manuscripts

© Christine Valters Paintner at Abbey of the Arts:
Transformative Living through Contemplative & Expressive Arts

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Stop by this week's Photo Party!

I fell in love with the Cloisters as a child. A branch of the Metropolitan Museum of Art on the north tip of Manhattan, it is constructed as a reproduction of a medieval cloister. Its collection contains art from all over Europe designed to give the visitor an experience of the monastic setting and milieu. I would wander through the cool stone passageways, linger in the lushly planted central courtyards with fountains gushing, and gaze at intricately woven tapestries. It was here that I first fell in love with the aesthetic dimension of monastic tradition long before I understood what that spirituality and way of life really meant.

The art, architecture, and music all made my heart swoon. But it was the illuminated manuscripts that really captured my imagination. I always had a love of books and here were these incredible texts, hand-written in gorgeous calligraphy with elaborate design elements along each page. In the Benedictine monastery, the library is second only to the church in importance. During the long period of the Dark Ages, when little in the way of art and culture was being encouraged or produced, monasteries became the preservers of culture. Here the monks would labor endlessly to copy sacred texts and embellish them with art and decorated letters that helped to illuminate their meaning.

These illuminations are not meant to be mere illustrations, but deeply spiritual meditations on the text itself in a language of color and symbol. The images embedded alongside the words help the reader to enter into the meaning of the sacred texts in new ways and ignite the imagination. The "illumination" refers to the use of gold or silver to create a luminosity and radiance in the images, reflective of its holy purpose. The art invites the reader to an interior pilgrimage where the words and symbols meet a person's own internal experience and longing for God.

Both the Hebrew and Christian sacred scriptures were copied, as were many other texts important to Catholic spiritual tradition. In medieval times, Books of Hours were created, which were small prayer books containing a collection of prayers and psalms to help lay people pray through the Hours of the day and incorporate elements of monastic devotion into their everyday lives. The advent of the printing press changed much of this, making the faster reproduction of texts accessible to a much wider audience. The art of illuminating texts gradually became less valued. Some reproductions of these, such as the Books of Hours (Phaidon Miniature Editions), are available.

Today, the best example of a contemporary illuminated manuscript is the St. John's Bible, which is a revival of this sacred work for modern times. This has been a multi-year project still in progress and includes the work of several artists and scribes. Using ancient techniques with contemporary images, it enlivens this tradition once again and brings relevant images to modern eyes inviting us again into a deeper relationship with sacred texts through accompanying art.

Practice & Reflection:
Choose an image from an illuminated manuscript (either ancient or modern) and use "Praying with Art — Visio Divina" to enter into the image in a deeper way.

Become aware in your daily life of the way words and images are used together to amplify each other's meaning. How does art help or hinder your understanding of the deeper meaning of something?

In a world where we receive information primarily through images and sound bytes, what wisdom might these ancient texts have to offer us?

** Make sure to stop by this week’s Poetry Party **

© Christine Valters Paintner at Abbey of the Arts:
Transformative Living through Contemplative & Expressive Arts

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Each participant had to do a presentation, so mine, of course, was on using the expressive arts in the supervision process which I have been actively using and exploring. The last night of the training we were given some quiet space to create an artistic response to how we see ourselves as supervisors and so I gathered the materials I had brought for others and created a small, impromptu book of hours using collage images and haiku. Haiku had already been moving in me since my boarding of the train to head down to the monastery where the training was held.  You may recognize the third haiku below from this week's Photo Party.

"What's a rite?" asked the little prince.  "Those also are actions too often neglected," said the fox. "They're what make one day different from other days, one hour different from other hours." -from The Little Prince

Open the door wide

Welcome in joy, sorrow, pain

Wise guides from beyond.

Keeper of night dreams

what visions rise from slumber

to awaken the world.?

As sun scatters dark

She asks me to awaken

to the light in me.

Morning bells ring

Sky unfurling gold ribbon,

Saying Look!  Listen!

My body prays with

each moment, hearbeat and breath

Living gratitude.

Sacred witness

reflecting deepest self.

Radiant Mirror.

We gather each thread

saffron, ruby, lapis, gold,

weaving a story.

Eyes knowing wisdom,

Showing face of the elder,

Let evening come.

Bridges beckon me,

cross toward the long dark night.

Go to the Edges.

And so it is not surprising to me, that this creative response to the question — how do I see myself in the role of supervisor? — also speaks deeply to how I see myself as a person, as a writer, a teacher, a spiritual director.

I love the way the Hours of the day speak to the different movements of our lives — the rising and falling that is woven into each breath and each story.  For me, being a "supervisor" of others means being a sacred witness, creating space for the process to unfold in safety. It means helping to weave together the threads to reveal the tapestry emerging.  It means being in a constant state of my own awakening to the places I have fallen asleep. It means tending my dreams for the new invitations found there.  It means embracing integrity — to be constantly moving toward a greater state of congruence between my inner life and outer expression.  It means tending the movements of God through me, honoring my body as holy vessel. It means taking time to delight in the sheer joy and beauty of it all.

What are the hours of your life?

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Pour some tea and then stop by this week’s newest Abbey feature — the Photo Party in honor of the Summer Solstice!  So many lovely and luminous images already gathering there.  Please help spread the word and invite others to join the party!  I will do the random drawing on Sunday!

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© Christine Valters Paintner at Abbey of the Arts:
Transformative Living through Contemplative & Expressive Arts

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May morning be astir with the harvest of night;
Your mind quickening to the eros of a new question,
Your eyes seduced by some unintended glimpse
That cut right through the surface to a source.

May this be a morning of innocent beginning,
When the gift within you slips clear
Of the sticky web of the personal
With its hurt and its hauntings,
And fixed fortress corners,

A Morning when you become a pure vessel
For what wants to ascend from silence,

May your imagination know
The grace of perfect danger,

To reach beyond imitation,
And the wheel of repetition,

Deep into the call of all
The unfinished and unsolved

Until the veil of the unknown yields
And something original begins
To stir toward your senses
And grow stronger in your heart

In order to come to birth
In a clean line of form,
That claims from time
A rhythm not yet heard,
That calls space to
A different shape.

May it be its own force field
And dwell uniquely
Between the heart and the light

To surprise the hungry eye
By how deftly it fits
About its secret loss.

-John O'Donohue, To Bless the Space Between Us: A Book of Blessings

During summertime here in the Northwest, I find myself waking up much earlier than I am used to during the rest of the year.  It begins getting light about 4:30 in the morning and stays light until almost 10. Because the air is warmer I need to sleep with the windows open and begin to crave longer nights again.  I have to be much more intentional about getting to sleep early because I know by 6:00 the light outside will be bright and Tune will be ready to go for her morning walk.  I have been trying to embrace the gift of these quiet early hours, these moments when new possibility arise and the day is given birth to.  I want  to become a "pure vessel for what wants to ascend from silence", I want to reach past repetition and old patterns and open myself to new discovery.

Back in January a co-worker of mine went to Italy and brought me back this image of the Birth of Venus who she said reminded her of me in multiple ways. It was a simple gift filled with a generous spirit and invitation into a new imagination for my being.  Venus has been my early morning muse lately. Just as she births beauty into a new day, she invites me to consider how I might live into the mythic birthing of beauty with each newly discovered morning? 

Of course she emerges from the sea, that primordial place from which all of life emerged, the place where rhythms of tides reveal and conceal the treasures of the shoreline. In the original image she is joined to the right by Horae, one of the goddesses of the seasons, a reminder of the movement of time and the sacred nature of its unfolding.  Venus is associated with love, beauty, and fertility and so seems an appropriate muse on early summer mornings when the sun rises in the east, when we breathe in the life-giving breath anew, and as we linger in the space between dreams and awakening.  I am listening these days for what I might discover in this Hour.

Who is your muse of the morning these days?  What dreams linger on your lips as you rise from sleep?  Is there a different quality to your summer waking hours than your winter ones?

© Christine Valters Paintner at Abbey of the Arts:
Transformative Living through Contemplative & Expressive Arts

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The answer is, of course, an unqualified YES! :-)

Mythologist and storyteller Michael Meade says the word “moment” comes from the Latin root momentus, which means to move.  We are moved when we touch the eternal and timeless.  There is a sense of spaciousness in moments.  Art and spiritual practice are how we find this moment of eternity, or even better, how we allow the moment to find us.  There are many moments waiting for us each day, prodding at our consciousness, inviting us to abandon our carefully constructed plans and defenses. 

The task of the artist is to cultivate the ability to see these eternal moments again and again.  In this way, we are all invited to become artists.

For me, both art and spirituality are truly about tending to the moments of life.  Listening deeply, holding space, encountering the sacred, touching eternity. For a few seconds we touch time beyond time and in that spacious presence my heart grows wider, my imagination frees, my breath catches, and I am held in awe and wonder. 

We know we have touched this moment when we are moved by something beyond us yet also rising from deep within.  We may be moved to tears or to laughter, or maybe both.  In these moments the particulars of the world open us up to a great expanse.  We suddenly see the other world hidden in the heart of this one.  We may not know exactly why or how, but we know we have been touched and transformed, invited into greater compassion for ourselves and the world.  In these moments words fail me and I want to sing and dance and cry poems from the center of my being.  I try to capture them in images as a doorway to the next moment.

Photography is for me a deeply contemplative practice. I take my camera out into the world and it invites me to slow down and linger over moments of beauty. It opens me to wonder and delight. I cultivate sacred seeing, my ability to see the world beneath the surface appearance of things.

Photography is essentially about the play of light and dark, illumination and shadow, much as the spiritual journey is a practice of paying attention to these elements of our lives and how the holy is revealed in each.

Photography is also about the choices we make in the visual framing of elements, what to include and what to exclude, whether to zoom or pull back. This is a practice of visual discernment: a way of choosing what is important and what needs to be let go of.

There is a quote I love from the film Waking Life about movies, but applies to photography as well:

“Film is a record of the ever-changing face of God.”

“This moment is holy, but we walk around like it’s not holy.  We walk around like there are some holy moments and there are all the other moments that are not holy.  [But they are] and film can let us see that. Film can frame it so we can see that, Ah! This moment. Holy.”

For me, that is one of the wonders of photography – to be able to frame a moment in time and within my gaze and absolute presence in that particular moment, I discover holiness. 

I am currently in the process of designing a new retreat called Deep Seeing: Photography & Poetry as Contemplative Practices (stay tuned for dates and location). I use the expressive arts extensively in my teaching and retreat work, but for some reason I have not yet used photography as a medium of discovery in working with others so I am delighted to be reflecting on the ways I can invite groups into this sacred seeing. And because I love the way word and image work together, poetry-writing will be used as a complementary way of developing contemplative vision.

For the last couple of years now I have been purchasing more sophisticated camera equipment.  My favorite combination is my Canon 30D and my Image Stabilizer 70-300 mm Macro Lens.  I love that zoom capacity for getting in close to things, both in being able to capture things from a distance like an eagle taking flight, but also for magnifying the small beauty in life and framing things in ways that help me to see them differently.

The funny thing is that while I love this expensive equipment it is also large and heavy with the lens attached. It is wonderful when I am focusing on the artfulness of a photo.  But I found that there were lots of times I was just walking to work or in my neighborhood and I wanted to have a camera handy to capture a particular moment or image.  So I ended up recently buying a Canon Powershot which I can fit easily in my pocket and now goes along with me in my backpack so it is always available for a holy moment.

Because of my practice of photography I see the world in new ways, and so the images are gifts, but the vision is a treasure.

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Speaking of the Blog Meme Interview, five people took me up on my offer to write interview questions including Rebecca at The Difference a Year Makes who writes a wonderful poem about the foreign lands she visits in her imagination, Sunrise Sister at Mind Sieve (Part One here and Part Two here) who shares secrets of making a marriage last and thrive and the gifts Thomas Merton have offered to her, and Laure at Weaving the Hours who reflects on what her poems would say about her if they could talk (read the rest of Laure's interview in the comment section below and then go visit her blog for a relishing of the hours of the day).

Go pop over for a visit to see how their thoughtful and thought-provoking responses.

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Come back Monday for our next Poetry Party in preparation for Lent!

Photos are a variety of images I have taken and am especially fond of.

(c) Christine Valters Paintner at Abbey of the Arts:
Transformative Living through Contemplative & Expressive Arts

Slowly the west reaches for clothes of new colours
which it passes to a row of ancient trees.
You look, and soon these two worlds both leave you,
one part climbs toward heaven, one sinks to earth,

leaving you, not really belonging to either,
not so helplessly dark as that house that is silent,
not so unswervingly given to the eternal as that thing
that turns to a star each night and climbs -

leaving you (it is impossible to untangle the threads)
your own life, timid and standing high and growing,
so that, sometimes blocked in, sometimes reaching out,
one moment your life is a stone in you, and the next, a star.

-Rainer Maria Rilke, from The Soul is Her for Its Own Joy

I feel inspired to post this evening to welcome in the Sabbath. My beloved and I have tried different ways of practicing Sabbath-keeping over the years and after our summer travels we have returned to a renewed commitment to this practice. For us the Jewish day of Sabbath is a more natural rhythm to our week and so beginning this evening we turn off the computer and the phone, we light a candle, and we turn to each other for a day of rest and delight. This particular Sabbath feels especially significant because it is also the New Moon. I love that in both Jewish and Christian tradition day begins with night and in the Jewish lunar calendar each month begins with the moon in its phase of blackest sky. The New Moon is a time for new beginnings, to hold in our hearts the things we long to see wax and grow into fullness. 

A week ago I went to the Tacoma Art Museum to see the exhibit of the St. John's Bible.  I was gifted with a set of volumes by an anonymous and very generous person and these have provided such a depth of inspiration for which I continue to be grateful.  It was a gift to see the original pages in person, the luminous quality of the vellum on which they were produced, the raised gold lettering that shimmers and reflects in the light, the letters painstakingly written. 

An unexpected delight was another exhibit I discovered there, a version of Renaissance composer Thomas Tallis' work Spem in Alium which I had never heard before.  This piece of music was designed for eight choirs of five voices each. The artist Janet Cardiff recorded each voice individually and then created an installation of forty speakers around a room facing inward.  Each speaker plays one of the voices so you can walk around the room and here the subtleties of each thread or sit in the middle and let the music rise and fall over you in luscious cascades.  It was an intoxicating experience and part of what led to my inspiration for the Poetry Party last Monday.

I have since downloaded a recording of the piece and below is a free version of it I found on Playlist so I could offer it to your ears. It is not the best recording (and the music doesn't begin until 12 seconds in), but gives you a sense of the experience.  

If Sabbath offers us a taste of heaven, then Rilke's sublime poem and Tallis' Spem in Alium (which means "Sing and Glorify") ushers in the beauty of the eternal moment.

-Christine Valters Paintner @ Abbey of the Arts

(image of candles taken in the Cathedral in Salzburg, Austria)