Fostering New Growth

August 28th, 2021 | Click to Comment

After a recent morning walk, I lingered outdoors pruning the taxus bushes. The day was already hot, but I had some time and wasn’t ready to sit down at the computer. So I kept to the shade as the advancing edge of sunlight nudged me along the length of the shrubs. I had no idea what time the clock read, or how long I had been working, but the sun kept me moving and helped me work evenly along the shrubbery.  

It’s a long, slow process, making these overgrown bushes into something that fits the space where they’re planted. By the time they came into my care they were crowding the sidewalk and blocking the window. But cutting them back wasn’t simple. They had long been trimmed just at the surface, sheared along the top and sides. Only the outside two inches were green, where the tips of the branches competed for sunlight. The massive interior was bare—a skeleton of a shrub wrapped in a green rug. But they were strong plants, with a will to live.

I’m learning how to work with their natural inclination to grow, and to proceed at their pace. Drastic measures are counter-productive; the places where I tried hacking the shrubs down to size resulted in many lifeless branches. But as long as I refrain from cutting off all the green tips at the surface, I can encourage new growth deep in the thicket of bare branches where light could not enter before. I have a general idea of the size and shape and fullness that I want to bring about, but I have to engage with how the plant wants to grow in order to get there. I pay attention to the places where it’s flourishing, and encourage those fecund branches to nourish the deeper growth that can develop.

This more careful tending teaches me about cultivating a full life. Watching for signs of new growth and then making the cuts that encourage it has become a contemplative practice. The life force in the plant shows what it wants to do. That’s what I watch for and work with. I hold in mind what’s possible as I engage with what’s in front of me.

This approach works for tending creative work as well. Revising a draft, for example, involves working with where the writing wants to go and cutting away what detracts. Doing creative work of any kind, including living a full and creative life, is all about noticing the tiny green hint of a bud beginning to form. It’s finding a way to give light and air to the new possibilities stirring, and pruning what would impede the life force from nurturing this new growth.

To do creative work we must arrange our lives to give light and air to our creative inklings. Letting in light might mean making space in our attention for a new idea, or seeking feedback from trusted others about our what we’re working on. Giving it air might mean allocating a regular time for creative work, making space in the day for tending what wants to grow.

The tender, green beginnings are where all new work comes from. Their growth depends on us giving them the care that only we can give them. Unless we make a way for them, they cannot come into the world.

What we tend matters. Fostering new growth renews the world and renews us. It’s part of being fully alive. Yet even though I know this, it’s something I have to remember, and re-remember, over and over again.

The beautiful song, “Now the Green Blade Riseth,” is one reminder that comes to mind. Steve Winwood’s version is lovely.

Susan C. Brown

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Illumination

July 9th, 2021 | Click to Comment

For a few minutes in the early morning, the angle of light from the sun, the tree line out back, the frame of a particular window and doorway, all align perfectly to send a shard of light across the kitchen counter. It illuminates a simple notepad I keep there. This narrow pointer of sunlight travels through the house from another room—an alignment that happens only around the summer solstice.

I’m still learning the light in this house and across this bit of land. Even now as I write, the changing angle of light illuminates a small brass nail on the oak floor. It must have fallen there, unnoticed, in a recent round of hanging art on the wall. For a moment the nail is easy to see, though when the light changes it will disappear again.

This week I read David Whyte’s “The House of Belonging.” There’s a subtle trinity in this poem—of wholeness in oneself, belonging, and connection. Whyte’s words embody a peace that comes from knowing that even in solitariness, he’s not alone. His sense of belonging comes from the connection of the soul to its source, to the mystery and beauty of all things, and to life itself. This connection to life is a connection to his own depths. It imbues every interaction with meaning and vitality. The sense of belonging that arises from this deep presence connects him to his home and the “housely angels” that dwell there. The feeling of belonging also connects him to those he loves, whom he welcomes into his home and his life. Belonging fosters an open heart, where others can belong.

Whyte is describing a moment of transcendence when he can see how his life is connected to a greater reality. Sometimes we can see the connection; sometimes we can’t. The golden threads that link our lives to the divine and to one another only show up when the light is just right. In the holy moments when we are most alive, these sacred threads of connection are illuminated. They show us the beauty of our lives. We see them in the light of a poem, a conversation, a loving touch, an image, a ritual, a prayer, a moment of beauty, or countless other ways.

We so easily lose sight of those golden threads. The light shifts, and the sense of wholeness and belonging that they bring seems to disappear. We forget that we’re connected; we lose track of how much our lives matter. It’s an illusion, of course. The golden threads remain as surely as that brass nail on the wooden floor, hidden in plain sight.

Walk on this earth with bare feet, connected to the ground, feeling for the sharp edges, the prick of the nail’s point. Watch for a new angle of light, revealing what is right there, the truth in plain sight that we’re finally able to see.

Susan Christerson Brown

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Awakening

March 31st, 2021 | Click to Comment

First thing this morning, there was a list running in my head of tasks that needed attention right away, or so I believed. I made my way to the kitchen in robe and slippers, reaching automatically to switch off the lamppost out front. The inner productivity police were telling me I was already behind—not a very kind or peaceful way to begin the day.

But outside the window, past the lamppost, my neighbor’s saucer magnolia was in full bloom. Lit by the rising sun, branches and blooms leaning languidly over the drive, the tree’s abundant flowers spilled onto the ground below. The sight lifted me above the weary trails in my mind, and awakened me to the beauty of the morning.

That tree hadn’t worried as it weathered the winter; it didn’t fret about whether it would bloom. It didn’t resist coming to life in the early spring. It didn’t tell itself that opening its buds was too hard, or question its own timing when the days turned warmer. It didn’t judge the number of blossoms on its branches, or their color and size.

Instead, it simply allowed the sap to rise and the buds to form and the sun to invite them to open. It didn’t “do” anything. It certainly didn’t force anything. It allowed life and the season to flow through it.

And today, that beautiful magnolia invited me to do the same.

May it be so.

Susan Christerson Brown

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Welcoming Donald Wyman

October 8th, 2020 | Click to Comment

As late summer shifted to fall this year, I decided to plant a tree. I’ve been adding shrubs and perennials where formerly only grass and violets grew, but planting a tree feels different. As a child, watching the growth of a sugar maple that I helped my grandfather plant taught me how a tree changes the landscape with its powerful presence. Planting a tree matters, and choosing well is a significant task.

I spent weeks mulling the options for a particular spot in my back yard. I wanted a tree that will flower in the spring, grow fruit I can share with the birds, and take on a pleasing rounded shape. It had to fit under the power lines. After much reading and google image searches, I finally narrowed the search to some variety of the crabapple.

Years ago, a spreading crabapple tree grew just outside the door to my children’s kindergarten. Perhaps memories from those days colored my choice. I can still see the tree full of children, as natural there as the fruit or the foliage. They clambered along its branches and tasted the sharp fruit, theirs for the taking, as their mothers or fathers lingered on the lawn at the end of the school day.

At local nurseries I encountered a plethora of dogwoods and redbuds and cherries—all lovely—but no specimens at all of the tree I was looking for. I was starting to question my choice until, at the third garden center I visited, I found not one but three varieties of crabapples. Jackpot! The nursery guy liked the Sugartyme, the only name I recognized from my research. It’s a good tree, but not quite the shape I hoped for. Snowdrift was another lovely specimen, with orange-red fruit and leaves turning gold in the October sun. The third variety was the Donald Wyman, bearing bright red fruit and glossy green foliage.

I pulled out my phone and compared pictures of the mature trees, read about their care, then walked for a while among the other trees and shrubs as I considered which to bring home. Returning to the crabapples banished any indecision. The colors of the Donald Wyman made me smile. Its shape already felt familiar, like the silhouette of a friend. I didn’t so much choose my tree as recognize it. This was the one I wanted to bring home.

The Donald Wyman is a species discovered at Harvard’s Arnold Arboretum in the 1950s. The tree is named for the head horticulturalist who found it. Nature made something new in that garden, and a naturalist with a trained eye and a continual presence in that place recognized the importance of the fresh arrival growing there. I’m glad he was paying attention.

With my back seat folded down, the tree man easily loaded it into my car through the hatchback. There was even room to bring home the Allegheny viburnum I had found on my tour of the garden center. When I got home and unloaded it, the tree brushed the top of the garage doorway—I had to set it out in the driveway to give it room to stand. I wheeled it around back and placed the container where I thought it should go. I studied the tree from different angles, including from inside the house, continually adjusting until it was perfectly placed.  

Then there was the work of getting it into the ground. I gathered what I needed: shovel, pine mulch soil conditioner, Bio-tone fertilizer, and pine bark mulch, all carried or lugged or wheeled to the planting site. I dug a wide hole, not too deep, and made a nest of well-conditioned soil to welcome and protect the first year’s root growth. I made sure the slender trunk was straight and tall, and the prettiest branches facing where I’ll view my tree most often. I watered it in, and admired my work, and told the tree: I’m glad you’re here.

The next night we had some weather. The sky darkened toward evening and the wind blew hard. The leaves and branches and entire upper half of the tree bent under its force, whipping back and forth. The young tree seemed so vulnerable out there, and some deep and non-rational protective instinct cringed at having left it to the elements all on its own. As if I should have kept it inside? Of course that didn’t make sense. And another part of me, seeing things more objectively, recognized that this is what the tree is made for. By some miracle, it is created to live in the elements, to weather the seasons, to grow and thrive in a full range of experience. I will water it and give it every support I can. But like the children all those years ago, now grown, this tree is meant to have its own life.

In the hour after I planted the tree, a robin swooped toward a slight branch, then seemed to change his mind about its ability to hold him. A smaller mockingbird lit briefly, then flew away. A couple days later I watched a blue jay pluck one of the bright red crabapples. When the fruit dropped to the ground he followed, pecking away at the skin until the round morsel in his beak glowed creamy yellow in the afternoon sun.  

I’m invested in this tree, its place in the landscape, its relationship with the birds in its branches and the chipmunks at its base. I look forward to witnessing the amber color of its leaves in the coming weeks, and its fragrant white blossoms in the spring. Its growth in any moment is imperceptible, yet if all goes well it will achieve a height and breadth that changes the landscape. Life flows through the tree, and the jay, and me. For this glorious time we’re given, we are here.

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The Leaven All Around Us

May 13th, 2020 | Click to Comment

This morning I lifted the lid on my Dutch oven to see the most beautiful loaf of sourdough bread I’ve made yet. The reveal has some drama, and a successful result is something to celebrate. The dough has a life of its own, making each loaf turn out differently.

Sourdough loaf baked in a Dutch oven

My relationship with the starter and the process is ongoing, and includes an element of the unknown. But my understanding grows, and the quality of the bread reflects the cumulative learning with every bake.

This grand experiment began in the initial, shocking days when the pandemic overtook us and normal activities ended. In a spirit of grow-your-own self-sufficiency, I wanted to see if I could capture wild yeast from the air and make my own sourdough starter. The ingredients were flour, water, time, and attention.

It took weeks to coax a bubbling starter into being. I fed it, adjusted its diet, and found the place in my kitchen where it was happiest to live. I even gave it time on my porch when the breeze was warm, inviting more yeast to the party.

My first efforts at bread were heavy and dense—less fluffy pillow and more like memory-foam. But I kept at it. Eventually, both the starter and my ability gained strength. I’m still learning, but I’m making progress.

The loaf I made today came out high and round, golden brown, with rustic edges to the scores I slashed just before placing it in the oven. The aroma while it baked was a dark and yeasty bass note, a hint of the underworld of life not visible or commonly met in the daily round.

The leaven for this loaf was literally taken out of the air. Not thin air, but air dense with life, with wild yeast that move through the world all the time. There’s much more than the virus that moves through the spaces between us.

The cultivation of this starter is a flavorful testament to the fact that we live and move and have our being in a field, not a vacuum. The space surrounding us is rich and dense and full of life. It is not an emptiness but a connective medium. It conveys all manner of ways through which creation affects us, and we affect one another.

We are part of a larger world that exists outside our concrete perception. This greater reality reaches us, impinges on us, supports and challenges us, and works with us when we manage the skillful means and awareness to engage. This rich field—call it Energy, the Life Force, God, the Higher Mind—offers leaven for our lives.

There’s no need to procure yeast elsewhere. Everything we need to bring life to the simplest of ingredients—flour, water, salt—is right here.

Sourdough round cooling

Susan Christerson Brown

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Learning to Thrive

September 30th, 2019 | 1 Comment

A couple of years ago when I was visiting a friend, I confessed my ineptitude with houseplants. I didn’t understand what they needed, and it seemed like too much trouble to learn. Yet I found myself longing for green and growing life to enjoy indoors.

“You can do this,” she told me, taking up a pair of scissors. She reached into the luscious greenery trailing across her kitchen counter and snipped the end of a branching vine bearing two leaves. “Just keep it in water,” she said as she filled a clear plastic cup. “It will root. That’s it.”  

On the long drive home I carried the little starter plant in the cup holder of my car, hoping that if those simple instructions sufficed we just might have a future together.

I kept that snippet of greenery with me as I moved several times over the following months, eventually transferring it to a substantial coffee mug that wouldn’t easily spill.

Along the way this hardy little plant produced a slender new cylinder of green, much like the pale stalk from which it grew, and within a couple of days a tender leaf unfurled. Rooted only in water, it was growing. Amazing.

Once, in an efficiency apartment with almost no counter space, the heat from a burner singed one of the leaves. I felt bad about that. For almost two years, seeing the dry, brown scar along its edge brought back those cramped quarters. This plant and I had a history.

But a few weeks ago the singed leaf turned yellow and dropped, as if the vine were letting go of an old wound. Why now, I wondered. The remaining leaves stretched toward the sunlight as always, their roots resting comfortably in the only nourishment they had ever known. And I finally understood that if this tenacious plant could live and grow on nothing but water, how much better it might fare with its roots in real soil.  

The vine is thriving now. Lovely as it was before, in recent weeks it has lengthened its reach and opened new leaves. It managed to get by for a long time, but the earthy nutrients it needed have brought an abundance of life. Perhaps it will grow as full and lush as the plant it came from. Certainly it can spare the snippet I cut for starting yet another new vine.

We’re made to survive, and we can live a long time—perhaps even a lifetime—on the watery nourishment that gets us through. But what about those times of knowing that life should feel more abundant?

Things change when we put down roots in the soil of our own true heart. When we meet whatever we find there, with gentleness and compassion, our presence transforms the part of ourselves that we encounter. We touch the ground of being that supports us all.

We don’t have to wait for circumstances to get better, for issues beyond our control to resolve. The nourishing love placed in the depths of our own true heart is available right now.

Where do you find the soil that allows you to flourish?

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Lining the Shelves

July 27th, 2018 | Click to Comment

The timing of a move this summer gave me a few days to ready the space before I moved into my new home. It was a chance to get to know the house itself, uncluttered with furniture or boxes, seeing how the light filled the rooms and changed throughout the day. I played a radio that echoed through the empty spaces while I prepared for my things to arrive.

One task was to put down clean shelf paper in the kitchen cabinets and drawers. Even before the boxes were moved in I was eager to get them unpacked and organized into a working kitchen, so I wanted all of the shelves ready to hold the things I needed.

It took forever, or at least it seemed to. Cutting the liner to the right dimensions made me aware of every inch of storage behind cabinet doors and drawer fronts. I allocated an evening for the job, but at the end of the evening I was so far from finished that I questioned the value of the whole enterprise. What had seemed like a good idea turned out to be more of an investment than I realized. But the shelves I had lined were clean and inviting, and I wanted all of them to feel that way. So I kept going.

The payoff showed up when I was unpacking boxes and working to put things in order. With that basic, foundational work done, the shelves were ready to hold what was needed.

Foundational work of any kind takes longer than we think. We underestimate what’s required to do it properly because in daily life the foundations aren’t obvious. Once the dishes are put away the shelf paper is practically invisible—unless it’s done badly, in which case it’s a continual vexation.

In spiritual life, the foundation is laid by cultivating the ability to be fully present and fully aware. It’s not until we’re able to notice what’s happening inside ourselves—our mental habits, our emotional patterns, our places of physical tension—that we become able to see clearly what’s going on in the world around us.

That practice of being present, of being awake and aware, is how we become receptive to the divine force that holds and guides us through life. Being present is how we become more loving; we can only love when we actually show up in this moment.

It’s easy to convince myself that I’m truly here because my body is. But my mind and heart go off on their own, wandering the same old paths, and lose connection with the body. If I’m not settled enough to feel my feet on the floor and the breath expanding my chest and belly, then I’m probably running my habitual patterns inside instead of truly showing up here and now. Not being in the body is a good clue that I’m not receptive to what life is offering right now.

Cultivating this practice takes even longer than putting down shelf liner. Preparing ourselves to receive the contents of whatever new box the day unpacks is the work of a lifetime. Yet when we are prepared to receive what comes, we’re better able to respond in freedom instead of from reflex. We’re more able to act from a place of love. The practice of mindfulness and meditation is something like laying down a clean lining for the shelving in our minds and hearts, and being conscious of what we will store there.

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Hand-Lettered Inheritance

November 11th, 2014 | Click to Comment

 

Gospel of Matthew St. John's Bible

Handwriting is more of an archaic art all the time—we even have apps for keeping our grocery lists. But as a calligrapher and as someone who loves books, I remain inspired by those monks of centuries past. They lit a candle in the dark ages, toiling away in their scriptoriums to copy manuscripts by hand. Their work was their answer to the question of what must be preserved, and what deserves to endure.

Today we are long past relying on scribes to copy out manuscripts, which makes the St. John’s University commission of a hand-lettered edition of the Bible all the more remarkable. Commissioned in 1998 and completed in 2011, it is a new work of calligraphy on a scale not seen for centuries. Even more exciting is that the volume containing the gospels is on display at the Berea College library during this academic year. The book is under glass, but five days a week it is turned to a new page.

 

2014-10-11 St. John's Bible at Berea

From the design of the book to the life in every line of the handwritten text and the artistic rendering of beloved passages, the work is beautiful. It brings together art, design, calligraphy, history, language, religion, and spirituality, yielding a result that elevates each of these realms. Donald Jackson, the Artistic Director of the project, said, “The continuous process of remaining open and accepting of what may reveal itself through hand and heart on a crafted page is the closest I have ever come to God.”

 

Matt 22.37-40 St. John's Bible

There is something about the willingness to undertake such a massive project that is beautiful, as well. Enormous coordination of effort and the resources required might be expected for the construction of a building or the making of a major film, but such largess is like breaking open the alabaster jar when lavished on rendering the written word. This project affirms both the unique value of these long-preserved scriptures and the power of words on paper.

Seeing this beautiful manuscript is a reminder of the ability of the written word to preserve and connect. Writing has long been a conduit for energy and inspiration to flow from one era to another, from one person to another, across vast expanses of time, geography, and culture.

 

Detail of St John's Bible - Matthew

Life was breathed into these words when they were first spoken, and into their recounting by those who recited them later. Life was poured into the lines by the writer’s hand and with each scribe’s individual pen strokes. Each step of the way, the energy of an individual person, expended in a singular place and time, created the link between the past and present. The technology that allows us to easily disseminate words and images is a wonderful tool, but technology also makes it easy to forget the individual people behind all our communication.

Words matter. Ideas matter. What we say, what we remember, what we write matters. As we live out our lives, linking the past to the future, we serve in the same role as those ancient scribes. We don’t use quill and ink, perhaps not even paper, but we play our part in preserving and communicating those things worth passing on. We have new tools, but the same task.

 

Detail St. John's Bible

 

What text shall we hand down?

 

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Room for the Spirit

September 27th, 2014 | Click to Comment

Last week, workmen installed a new hardwood floor at our house. Preparing for that work looked a lot like moving—books packed away into boxes and furniture carried out. When the room was empty the old carpet looked even worse; this project was long overdue.

Two and a half days of noisy work followed: an electric saw wailing on the front walk, hammers pounding the planks into place, sporadic shots of a nail gun driven by a compressor that reverberated through the entire house. But in the midst of it all was the encouraging scent of fresh lumber and the satisfaction of seeing good work in progress.

Bare Wood Floor

After the oak was stained, the guys brushed the finishing coat over the wood, working their way toward the front door. They stepped backwards onto the porch, leaned in to close the door, and wished us well.

It was quiet. And beautiful.

An empty room with a glowing oak floor has a Zen-like tranquility. Waiting for the finish to dry meant it had to remain bare, and I enjoyed seeing this kind of space in the house. Later, even as I missed the comfort of the room’s furnishings, I was reluctant to move everything back in. The openness invites a sense of expansiveness, of possibility, that I didn’t want to give up.

Not allowing everything to return means making some decisions. It means sorting through shelves and baskets deciding on what’s worth keeping. And it means not letting things pile up once that paring down is done.

But I’ve been here before. And before that. It’s a cycle that continues. But in this case the change started at the foundation, and the decision is not what to carry out but what to bring in. Maybe that will make a difference. I keep having to learn over and over again that changing your space and changing your life seem to go together.

That expanse of uncluttered space, anchored by the warmth of natural wood, made me think of meditation. Maybe it seemed a perfect room for meditation because the open space, both restful and expansive, is like the mental and spiritual uncluttering that happens through meditation and prayer.

It’s also a physical embodiment of what the Sabbath is meant to be—an opening of time for what we value most, a space that allows some perspective on what’s most important. Sacred space and sacred time seem to be two sides of the same coin, and both help make room for the Spirit.

There’s a sense of renewal in transforming this room, just as meditation and prayer renew mind and spirit, as Sabbath renews the week. Creating it gives rise to the question of what is worth allowing into our space, and offers a reminder of how much choice we have in making that decision. It’s a practice worth repeating every week, or even every day.

 

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Memento from a Retreat

November 21st, 2013 | 3 Comments

Something within us knows the value of a new perspective. It comes through when we get the sense that it’s time to get away. One person’s restorative weekend might be another’s tedium, but whether it’s a shopping excursion, a sports event, a hike in the woods, a visit to a gallery, a hobby convention, a mission trip, or simply being any place but here, sometimes a change of scenery is exactly what we need.

A retreat is another kind of getaway. It isn’t about activities or entertainment, but comes from the desire both to find rest and to be awakened through quiet time in peaceful surroundings away from everyday life.

Recently a friend and I spent a couple of days on retreat at the Sisters of Loretto campus near Bardstown, Kentucky. On my own, I probably wouldn’t have made it happen. Unlike so many other events and commitments, a retreat doesn’t clamor for its place on the calendar. But once we started talking about the idea, we created enough momentum to make a plan and see it through. I’m glad about that, because the effort resulted in a lovely experience that is all too rare.

The tricky part of going on retreat is that the mindset that puts it in place—the planning and packing and logistics of getting there—is exactly what needs to be set aside once we arrive. A to-do list pretty much defeats the purpose of relaxing and spending time away from our schedules. So I tried to go without an agenda, and with the idea of listening for whatever it was I needed to hear. But I also tried to be ready for anything. I took books and writing paper, my computer and journal, good walking shoes and my camera, along with the scarf I was knitting. Maybe someday I’ll master the art of traveling light.

The sisters have a library available to guests, where I found a book by Richard Rohr that turned out to be perfect for reading during my time there. Everything Belongs is a meditation on God’s presence. (Below is a note that one of the sisters left about the rearrangement of their shelves.)

But the ideas I encountered in Rohr’s book found their most eloquent expression after a storm on the first night. Through hours of darkness I had heard the wind tearing through trees and battering the brick and old wood outside my window. Yet the next morning broke chilly and clear. The night seemed almost a bad dream, except that the wind had brought down thousands of pecans from trees all across the grounds. Along the walkway to the guest house, on the path to the pond, among the stations of the cross, around the cemetery, they were everywhere.

“Take some with you,” the sisters urged. And I did. Like a chipmunk stuffing its cheeks, I filled the pockets of my jacket until the fleece could stretch no further. Abundance. Enough for the woman I met, kneeling on the ground, filling her bag as she remembered the shelled pecans that were her grandfather’s gift of love and work at Christmastime. Enough for the two who filled the hood of a third friend’s sweatshirt, worn like a bulging backpack. Enough for others who would stroll the grounds after we left.

Now that I’m back home, the pecans I gathered remind me to breathe and remember that God is present. They remind me of abundance—gifts stumbled upon in the wake of the storm, a harvest to crack open and enjoy through winter days to come.

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