Via Beatta--the Blessed Way

I have an old engagement calendar--a "Book of Days" from 1985 that I have kept all this while because it has Emily Dickinson poems and illustrations for each week.  I found it in a desk drawer recently and discovered that the days and weeks exactly match up with 2013.  So, it is now on my desk top where I can read the poems and reflect on the appointments I recorded nearly thirty years ago!      The first thing I notice is that I was using two colors of ink, turquoise for business, purple for personal.  They were from very fine point pens—I can remember just what they looked like.  I also notice that I remember all of the people whose names are jotted there and the exact point in my career that they represent.  I traveled a lot for work in those days, so there is a note to call the company travel agency to book a flight for an upcoming meeting.  Was it the convention in Reno or the conference in Washington, D.C.?  Or maybe one of the seminars in Nashville or Albuquerque.   

My mornings here in the log cabin are quiet. Birdsong, cat complaints, the wind chimes if there is a breeze.   Then comes the coffee!   The piercing whistle of the tea kettle.   The harsh crushing of the grinder.   I try to recover from this intrusion, standing beside the press pot, breathing in that first scent of burst beans, pouring the steaming water, waiting as the flavor blossoms--four minutes of patience before pressing and then, alleluia, the first hot sip!   It is a ritual of thankfulness.   For the morning, for a new day.   A touchstone before going forth to whatever blessings and demands await.      There have been mornings without the coffee ritual.   Trips back and forth to Chicago have caused me to lose track of supplies, awaking to an empty canister, or, horror of horrors, to the experimental jar of instant.   Trips--Kenya and Guatemala, coffee growing countries where it is all exported and we are left with little straws of Nescaf é .   (At least the Starbucks st

Yes, I am a coward.  Furthermore, I always think of what I should have said a day too late.  And so it was yesterday.      We have a rather nice group of united churches here.  We meet monthly, and, more or less, do things together.  The biggest accomplishment is an active food pantry.  But we also have several combined worship services throughout the year and other opportunities for outreach.  I say "more or less" because, since there is a rather broad spectrum of theology and practice that is represented, not all churches participate in all things.  For example, there is a tradition of a combined Good Friday service, but the Catholic parishes have their own services, and I'm not sure what the non-denomina-tional churches do.      We gathered for our first meeting of the new season yesterday.  Two guest speakers presented their organization's newly formed activities in our area, encouraging all of us to involve our congregations.  I was a bit disgruntled to learn t

I have stolen this name "Via Beatta" or Way of Blessing from a group that is no more.  It was a women's chant group that sang Compline every Sunday evening.  I was part of it for 3 1/2 years, and treasured the beauty of the sung Compline liturgy, the transcendent space in which we sang surrounded by hundreds of candles, and the discipline and sheer joy of singing.        We did more than just sing the liturgy, of course.  We sang plainsong and Anglican chant, as well as hymns and anthems.  We learned some music theory and voice production as we were invited to trade off on the solo parts.  As we were a small group --usually eight or ten of us--we learned the art of blending our individual voices into a more pleasing ensemble. It was truly a rich spiritual practice that began each new week with a bit of peace and sense of well-being.  Even now, ten years later, I miss it.      The group played a large role in my formation process--my spiritual quest around my calling a