Inner and Outer Landscapes....

“How hard it is to escape from places. However carefully one goes they hold you - you leave little bits of yourself fluttering on the fences - like rags and shreds of your very life.”

~Katherine Mansfield

Place is defined by Webster’s Dictionary as: 1: physical environment, 2: a way for admission or transit, and 3: physical surroundings. (Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary). These physical surroundings and our movements within them allow us admission to experience both our outer and inner landscapes. Author, Kathleen Norris writes of this in her book, Dakota: A Spiritual Geography. The novel opens in the High Plains, “the beginning of the desert West which often act as a crucible for those who inhabit them. Like Jacob’s angel, the region requires that you wrestle with it before it bestows a blessing.” (Norris 1) This sets the tone for the spectacular landscape she is so enamored with – the barren plains of western South Dakota. Yet, in this nothingness – she finds everything needed to satisfy what takes precedence – her inner landscape – where she meets God through people, nature, and most importantly – place. Her relationship with God is experienced through the people and places that are a part of her world and provide insight into the importance of place in our spiritual life. Our experience of place can lead us to transcendence with the Divine.

Place has shaped both our external and internal landscapes since our Genesis. The Garden of Eden is the place Adam and Eve resided in after their creation. It is an essential part of the Creation story and remains a place that evokes a collage of images unique to each individual. Its location remains the subject of speculation and hypotheses. However, some scholars place it “at the headwaters of the Tigris and Euphrates, in Mesopotamia, Africa, and the Persian Gulf,” while others insist on its metaphorical existence. (Wikipedia) Nevertheless, it remains an important spiritual place for the Abrahmic traditions of our world. Many consider this place a Paradise that contains the elements which shape the internal landscapes for members of these faith traditions; Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. Eden is considered the quintessential paradise; peaceful, heavenly, and the place of perfect happiness. Norris finds her Eden in the western Dakotas. Vastly different from Eden in its geographical terrain, these barren hills of the high desert begin to shape her internal landscape – the place she dwells in with challenge, courage, complete abandon, and inheritance. Dakota is the land she returned to and her own personal Eden.

“I want to make it clear that my move did not take me ‘back to the land’ in the conventional sense. My move was one that took me deep into the meaning of inheritance, as I had to toy to fit myself into a complex network of long-established relationships.” (Norris 3) She knew this terrain – this land. The landscape she returned to in her adult years was a family gift (from her grandmother) and, most importantly, an ancestral inheritance of blood, family, and soulful memories. She was walking in the sacred tracks of her ancestors. This place is the land she found joy in as a child. Its familiarity was within her and pulsing through her veins. Her inheritance may have been instinctual in her “desire for contact with a source of holiness.” (Harpur 16)

This source of the holy can be found in the places of our lives. Norris writes poignantly about this source, and she experiences the sense of this through the stories, the people, and the land that births them. Storytelling is her art from and she mentions the importance of this when describing Dakota’s people and history, “a storytelling tradition is something Plains people share with both ancient and contemporary monks; we learn our ways of being and reinforce our values by telling tales about each other.” (Norris 6) She reminds us of the importance of the oral tradition and how this becomes a lifeline to keep the people, the culture, and place alive. Her spiritual geography contains the significance of place (Dakota) and those whom inhabit this place - Plains people with lives rooted here. The places in our lives do contain this important element and these people become a significant part of our own sense of place. We become enamored (or not) with a place, in large part, because of its inhabitants, and she writes candidly of the people in this land who shape this place. Like a beautiful picture, framed by Dakota, the canvas she paints of these people enhances her sense of place. Dakota’s people’s livelihood is dictated by climate, and she reflects the importance of this in her spiritual geography. Her weather reports poetically document the inconsistent, extreme climate that dictates day-to-day life here, and the internal landscape she explores allows us to become a part of her place – outwardly and inwardly – seeing the extremes in both. A place and its people are essential elements of any spiritual journey, and she orchestrates a vivid picture of both. The rhythms of this land become a part of her. Our hearts beat to the tune of the places we live.

We become familiar with the rhythm of these places in our lives. Norris likes rhythm and is in tune with the music of her soul. We do develop a rhythm to our lives – in large part conducted by the place we inhabit. From the Benedictine rhythm of the hours, (which she writes about with love and fondness) to the beautiful beat of her words, she slips into both with great ease and familiarity. This rhythm shapes the landscape within her, and she marches to this drum of silence rather than noise. She finds the holy in silence and barrenness rather than loud noises or lavish environments. An acquaintance of hers, a local monk says, “A monk isn’t supposed to need all kinds of flashy surroundings. We’re supposed to have a beautiful inner landscape. Watching a storm pass from horizon to horizon fills your soul with reverence. It makes your soul expand to fill the sky.” (Norris 9). Norris discovers the fullness of her internal space through the barrenness of her external place. The beauty of this emptiness – this barrenness – flows throughout this spiritual memoir and evokes memories of my own time spent in the High Desert of New Mexico where I lived in my twenties. The paradox of this emptiness is in its fullness.

“I’ve walked through miniature Grand Canyons few humans have even see, through seeps of land that put John Ford vistas and even the scenery in Dances With Wolves, to shame. Our odd, tortured landscape terrifies many people. Some think it’s as barren as the moon, but others are possessed by it. The land lives.” (Norris 36) There is beauty here that is magnificent. Within this ruggedness - this emptiness - lie miles of sky that swallow the individual in its largeness, spectacular sunrises and moonsets that nourish the soul with their beauty, and miles and miles of land without a person in sight. In this empty, barren beauty, Norris tends to the flourishing garden of the landscape within. She relishes in the barrenness of the western Dakotas, which many have left because they could not face this outer terrain of emptiness that compelled them into the unfamiliar territory of their inner landscapes that demanded attention. “The Plains are not forgiving, she writes. Anything that is shallow – the easy optimism of a homesteader; the false hope that denies geography, climate, history; the tree whose roots don’t reach ground water – will dry up and blow away.” (Norris 38) Once again, we are allowed a glimpse into the people who inhabit this land. However, this place is not without hardship or strife. On the contrary, trials and tribulations are part of the world we reside in - both inner and outer. Hers was no different and she reflects on the adjustment from city life to frontier experience. Her spirituality is shaped by both and she reflects on its striking contradiction – an adjustment of both internal and external terrain.

Moving to another place can be trying at best. Moving to a place that is the polar opposite of your current environment can leave your equilibrium off balance needing time for adjustment. I am familiar with this feeling of adjustment that she writes about, in her move to Dakota from New York City, which she compares to the challenges of going to sea. She discusses this displacement of her contemplative reality in the chapter titled, Sea Change. “My move from New York City to western South Dakota changed my sense of time and space so radically I might as well have gone to sea. In journeying on the inland ocean of the Plains, the great void at the heart of North America, I’ve discovered that time and distance, those inconveniences that modern life with its increasingly sophisticated computer technologies seeks to erase, have a reality and a terrifying beauty all their own.” Slowing down takes time when moving from the noise of this busyness of today’s world. Norris enjoys the slow lane – the pace of Dakota - and talks of a formation that takes place, “One must choose this life consciously, as one chooses the monastery. One must make an informed rejection of any other way of life and undergo a period of formation. Families are raising children in the way Benedict asks monasteries to treat would-be monks, warning, ‘Do not grant newcomers to the monastic life an easy entry.’” (Norris 147) There is sacredness to this land and to the choice of entering into it. Tread carefully, discern, think, and pray. This is a decision that should not be made lightly – this choosing of place. There are obstacles and challenges that will occur, as they do within a ministerial setting, religious order, or any decision that has an element of significance to our spirit. Norris talks about these challenges candidly and gives us a birds-eye view into the obstacles she has encountered relating to us how her external terrain has shaped the place she tends to internally. This place, the western Dakotas, has shaped Norris. The places of our lives become a part of who we are as individuals, communities, and institutions.

“Place not only matters to us personally, but communally as well. Just as they do for us individually, places shape the identity of communities. As nations, as churches, and as families we derive a sense of identify and meaning from places. The place where a community begins holds a particularly important significance. Americans, for example, revere places such as Plymouth Rock, Independence Hall, or Valley Forge because in these places the seeds of the nation were planted. Christians make pilgrimages to Bethlehem, Nazareth, and Jerusalem to remember the events of Jesus’ life, which gave shape to the community of faith. A family’s first home is an important place because of the many foundational events that occur there. Likewise, places where a community experience a crisis, marks an important transition, or experiences significant growth becomes places charged with meaning.” (Hamma 18) Norris’s Dakota speaks of this significance of place on the individual and communal levels. Her Dakota is filled with the stories of this land, and her love of the people who inhabit it. “Few appreciate the harsh beauty of a land that rolls like the ocean floor it once was, where dry winds scour out buttes, and the temperature can reach 110 degrees above or plunge to 30 below zero for a week or more. Say what you will about our climate, in Dakota we say it keeps the riff-raff out.” (Norris 26) Norris loves the people of this land and respects those who live here. She realizes the harshness of this terrain, and she has both respect and admiration for its people when writing of the isolation that takes its toll. However, this isolation also brings what she calls “prairie wisdom.” Simple, practical, and born from emptiness - this is the wisdom of the Dakotas. “Here we discover the paradox of the contemplative life, that the desert of solitude can be the school where we learn to love others.” (Norris 121)

And love she does. The people of Dakota are afraid of change and the author worries that this may eliminate any future of hope. How true this is of the special places in our lives that need change to survive, yet we remain fearful this change will make our place different. She’s concerned for her place and the future of this place as well. We need to care for the land we inhabit so future generations can draw sustenance and life from the same place. Place keeps us alive, however we need to keep place alive! She speaks of the importance of the oral tradition and its importance in regards to place. “The country people of Dakota, like poets like monks, are as Jean Cocteau once said of poetry, “useless but indispensable.” (Norris 41) Our stories keep both the land and the spirit alive. We cannot forget our past or we will lose part of our place. There is a guarded sense of community in this place and those that come from the “outside world.” People here have seen others come and go, leaving them with a sense of distrust to anyone who may come to live here. “Small towns need a degree of insularity in order to preserve themselves. But insularity becomes destructive when ministers, teachers, and librarians grow weary of pretending not to know what they know, and either leave or cease to offer themselves as resources whose knowledge could benefit the community.” (Norris 61) Norris speaks candidly about her fears for Dakota, yet her love of this land is indisputable. She worries about the future of this place – this sacred place. Dakota has become a part of Norris and she has become a part of Dakota. This is true about the places of our lives. We leave our tracks behind and these places leave their footprints on our soul.

This land has allowed her inner space to reflect the outer expanse of the Dakotas - wide-open spaces and endless sky. Her internal landscape reflects this largeness of space, which provides fullness to her spirit. She writes of one incident where she had to return to New York to visit a dear friend and the contrast she experienced on her arrival, “It surprises me also to find that I no longer need to visit the city – any city – to obtain what I am missing, because I don’t feel deprived. Sometimes I even seek out the desert within the city. On a recent trip to Manhattan, when a dinner date with an old friend feel through and I found myself with a free evening, I phoned some Episcopalian nuns I know and asked if I might come for vespers and dinner. While a Friday night rush hour swirled around us, we sang plainsong and then ate a meal in silence. It was what I needed to bring a hectic week to closure, a chance to recollect myself, to use a monastic term, and even to experience a bit of that peace that passes understanding.” (Norris 17) She seeks out the deserts that surround her. She is drawn to this type of landscape – these terrains – and the Great Plains have become her monastery – her “desert within a desert.” (Norris 17).

She finds comfort in these monasteries, especially amongst the Benedictines, where she finds herself surprisingly at home. This “desert within a desert” is where she finds contemplation, silence, and a sense of community. She is at home in the monastery of the Plains as well as the cloister. In both, she finds communion with the Divine. She compares small town living to life in a monastery, “The monasteries I am familiar with in Dakota also have their problems, the small-town problems of personality clashes at close quarters, of gossip, of pigeonholing people or taking them for granted. But overall they seem healthier than the small towns.” (Norris 113) Norris is tuned into the external place that surrounds her, whether in the monastic cell or her home in Lemmon (the small town she resides in South Dakota).

These places, like the spiritual life, have both shadow and light. “A leader is someone with the power to project either shadow or light onto some part of the world and onto the lives of the people who dwell there. A leader shapes the ethos in which others must live, an ethos as light-filled as heaven or as shadowy as hell. A good leader is intensely aware of the interplay of inner shadow and light, lest the act of leadership do more harm than good.” (Palmer) Her spirituality is attuned to the environment and is part of her spirituality. The shadows are just as important as the light in our journeys, and Norris is aware of this. She writes candidly about these experiences in Dakota, and she discusses how both shape her internal landscape. She leads us with wholeness and honesty into her place.

The spirituality of place is significant in our lives. God is present in us, around us, and in every person, place, and thing we encounter. We experience God through all of these. God transcends all and dwells within each of these. The places of our lives are important in our own spiritual geographies. We all remember the place we met our first love or had our first kiss. We may have a favorite home from our childhood or place to go when we need respite. We’ve crossed thresholds to places of unconditional love and doorways of hope. We remember place. The places in our lives become a part of us and we become a part of them. Like Norris’ Dakota, each one of us has a place (or places) that shape our internal landscape.

The landscape she navigates is familiar territory to me. Outwardly and inwardly, she embarks on the incredible adventure of the Spirit – her inner pilgrimage reflected in the beauty of the Dakotas. I know this place. I know the internal terrain she treads on and the wrestling with acceptance, then nothingness, and then - Everything. Place can transcend the human experience into a Divine encounter with God. When both outer and inner landscapes meet, we may encounter the Source and Ground of All Being. I am a part of the places of my life and they are a part of me. From my childhood home in the hill towns of western Massachusetts to the high desert of New Mexico – these places have shaped me. Place is significant in my spiritual life as it is to Norris in Dakota. My spiritual geography has led me to the heights of Mt. McKinley, through the British Isles, and through Europe and the Far East. I hold each of these places within me and they contain a part of me – the footprints I have left behind.

Norris does not paint a picture for us through rose-colored glasses. The spiritual geography of our lives is not an easy road to tread, and she reminds us of this. Beauty and ugliness dwell together and find their definition in the eye of the beholder. To experience a transcendent God, we must experience the wholeness of our lives – in all its paradoxes and opposites. Navigating this terrain is not for the faint of heart. We must listen to the land in which we live and inhabit. To experience the true spirituality of the places of our lives – we must stop and pay attention. God is in all things – the emptiness of a land or the fullness of it. We do not see God as God’s self but in the geographies of our lives. Place - our outer landscape - shapes the terrain of our spirits- our inner landscape. We must tend to both gardens with care, for we will see the fruits of our labor both now and in eternity.

“We see now through a glass darkly, later we shall see face to face.”

1 Cor 13:12, Paul the Apostle

Works Cited

Hamma, Robert M. Landscapes of the Soul: A Spirituality of Place. Ave Maria press: Notre Dame, IN, 1999.

Harpur, James. Sacred Tracks - 2000 Years of Chirstian Pilgrimage. Berkeley and Los Angeles, California: University of California Press, 2002.

Merriaw-Webster Online Dictionary. Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary. 16 April 2008. 16 April 2008 .

Norris, Kathleen. Dakota - A Spiritual Geography. New York: Tickner and Fields, 1993.

Palmer, Parker J. Let Your Life Speak: Listening for the Voice of Vocation. San Francisco, CA: Jossey-Bass, 2000.

Wikipedia. The Garden of Eden. 25 April 2008. 25 April 2008 .

Inner and Outer Landscapes....

“How hard it is to escape from places. However carefully one goes they hold you - you leave little bits of yourself fluttering on the fences - like rags and shreds of your very life.”

~Katherine Mansfield

Place is defined by Webster’s Dictionary as: 1: physical environment, 2: a way for admission or transit, and 3: physical surroundings. (Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary). These physical surroundings and our movements within them allow us admission to experience both our outer and inner landscapes. Author, Kathleen Norris writes of this in her book, Dakota: A Spiritual Geography. The novel opens in the High Plains, “the beginning of the desert West which often act as a crucible for those who inhabit them. Like Jacob’s angel, the region requires that you wrestle with it before it bestows a blessing.” (Norris 1) This sets the tone for the spectacular landscape she is so enamored with – the barren plains of western South Dakota. Yet, in this nothingness – she finds everything needed to satisfy what takes precedence – her inner landscape – where she meets God through people, nature, and most importantly – place. Her relationship with God is experienced through the people and places that are a part of her world and provide insight into the importance of place in our spiritual life. Our experience of place can lead us to transcendence with the Divine.

Place has shaped both our external and internal landscapes since our Genesis. The Garden of Eden is the place Adam and Eve resided in after their creation. It is an essential part of the Creation story and remains a place that evokes a collage of images unique to each individual. Its location remains the subject of speculation and hypotheses. However, some scholars place it “at the headwaters of the Tigris and Euphrates, in Mesopotamia, Africa, and the Persian Gulf,” while others insist on its metaphorical existence. (Wikipedia) Nevertheless, it remains an important spiritual place for the Abrahmic traditions of our world. Many consider this place a Paradise that contains the elements which shape the internal landscapes for members of these faith traditions; Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. Eden is considered the quintessential paradise; peaceful, heavenly, and the place of perfect happiness. Norris finds her Eden in the western Dakotas. Vastly different from Eden in its geographical terrain, these barren hills of the high desert begin to shape her internal landscape – the place she dwells in with challenge, courage, complete abandon, and inheritance. Dakota is the land she returned to and her own personal Eden.

“I want to make it clear that my move did not take me ‘back to the land’ in the conventional sense. My move was one that took me deep into the meaning of inheritance, as I had to toy to fit myself into a complex network of long-established relationships.” (Norris 3) She knew this terrain – this land. The landscape she returned to in her adult years was a family gift (from her grandmother) and, most importantly, an ancestral inheritance of blood, family, and soulful memories. She was walking in the sacred tracks of her ancestors. This place is the land she found joy in as a child. Its familiarity was within her and pulsing through her veins. Her inheritance may have been instinctual in her “desire for contact with a source of holiness.” (Harpur 16)

This source of the holy can be found in the places of our lives. Norris writes poignantly about this source, and she experiences the sense of this through the stories, the people, and the land that births them. Storytelling is her art from and she mentions the importance of this when describing Dakota’s people and history, “a storytelling tradition is something Plains people share with both ancient and contemporary monks; we learn our ways of being and reinforce our values by telling tales about each other.” (Norris 6) She reminds us of the importance of the oral tradition and how this becomes a lifeline to keep the people, the culture, and place alive. Her spiritual geography contains the significance of place (Dakota) and those whom inhabit this place - Plains people with lives rooted here. The places in our lives do contain this important element and these people become a significant part of our own sense of place. We become enamored (or not) with a place, in large part, because of its inhabitants, and she writes candidly of the people in this land who shape this place. Like a beautiful picture, framed by Dakota, the canvas she paints of these people enhances her sense of place. Dakota’s people’s livelihood is dictated by climate, and she reflects the importance of this in her spiritual geography. Her weather reports poetically document the inconsistent, extreme climate that dictates day-to-day life here, and the internal landscape she explores allows us to become a part of her place – outwardly and inwardly – seeing the extremes in both. A place and its people are essential elements of any spiritual journey, and she orchestrates a vivid picture of both. The rhythms of this land become a part of her. Our hearts beat to the tune of the places we live.

We become familiar with the rhythm of these places in our lives. Norris likes rhythm and is in tune with the music of her soul. We do develop a rhythm to our lives – in large part conducted by the place we inhabit. From the Benedictine rhythm of the hours, (which she writes about with love and fondness) to the beautiful beat of her words, she slips into both with great ease and familiarity. This rhythm shapes the landscape within her, and she marches to this drum of silence rather than noise. She finds the holy in silence and barrenness rather than loud noises or lavish environments. An acquaintance of hers, a local monk says, “A monk isn’t supposed to need all kinds of flashy surroundings. We’re supposed to have a beautiful inner landscape. Watching a storm pass from horizon to horizon fills your soul with reverence. It makes your soul expand to fill the sky.” (Norris 9). Norris discovers the fullness of her internal space through the barrenness of her external place. The beauty of this emptiness – this barrenness – flows throughout this spiritual memoir and evokes memories of my own time spent in the High Desert of New Mexico where I lived in my twenties. The paradox of this emptiness is in its fullness.

“I’ve walked through miniature Grand Canyons few humans have even see, through seeps of land that put John Ford vistas and even the scenery in Dances With Wolves, to shame. Our odd, tortured landscape terrifies many people. Some think it’s as barren as the moon, but others are possessed by it. The land lives.” (Norris 36) There is beauty here that is magnificent. Within this ruggedness - this emptiness - lie miles of sky that swallow the individual in its largeness, spectacular sunrises and moonsets that nourish the soul with their beauty, and miles and miles of land without a person in sight. In this empty, barren beauty, Norris tends to the flourishing garden of the landscape within. She relishes in the barrenness of the western Dakotas, which many have left because they could not face this outer terrain of emptiness that compelled them into the unfamiliar territory of their inner landscapes that demanded attention. “The Plains are not forgiving, she writes. Anything that is shallow – the easy optimism of a homesteader; the false hope that denies geography, climate, history; the tree whose roots don’t reach ground water – will dry up and blow away.” (Norris 38) Once again, we are allowed a glimpse into the people who inhabit this land. However, this place is not without hardship or strife. On the contrary, trials and tribulations are part of the world we reside in - both inner and outer. Hers was no different and she reflects on the adjustment from city life to frontier experience. Her spirituality is shaped by both and she reflects on its striking contradiction – an adjustment of both internal and external terrain.

Moving to another place can be trying at best. Moving to a place that is the polar opposite of your current environment can leave your equilibrium off balance needing time for adjustment. I am familiar with this feeling of adjustment that she writes about, in her move to Dakota from New York City, which she compares to the challenges of going to sea. She discusses this displacement of her contemplative reality in the chapter titled, Sea Change. “My move from New York City to western South Dakota changed my sense of time and space so radically I might as well have gone to sea. In journeying on the inland ocean of the Plains, the great void at the heart of North America, I’ve discovered that time and distance, those inconveniences that modern life with its increasingly sophisticated computer technologies seeks to erase, have a reality and a terrifying beauty all their own.” Slowing down takes time when moving from the noise of this busyness of today’s world. Norris enjoys the slow lane – the pace of Dakota - and talks of a formation that takes place, “One must choose this life consciously, as one chooses the monastery. One must make an informed rejection of any other way of life and undergo a period of formation. Families are raising children in the way Benedict asks monasteries to treat would-be monks, warning, ‘Do not grant newcomers to the monastic life an easy entry.’” (Norris 147) There is sacredness to this land and to the choice of entering into it. Tread carefully, discern, think, and pray. This is a decision that should not be made lightly – this choosing of place. There are obstacles and challenges that will occur, as they do within a ministerial setting, religious order, or any decision that has an element of significance to our spirit. Norris talks about these challenges candidly and gives us a birds-eye view into the obstacles she has encountered relating to us how her external terrain has shaped the place she tends to internally. This place, the western Dakotas, has shaped Norris. The places of our lives become a part of who we are as individuals, communities, and institutions.

“Place not only matters to us personally, but communally as well. Just as they do for us individually, places shape the identity of communities. As nations, as churches, and as families we derive a sense of identify and meaning from places. The place where a community begins holds a particularly important significance. Americans, for example, revere places such as Plymouth Rock, Independence Hall, or Valley Forge because in these places the seeds of the nation were planted. Christians make pilgrimages to Bethlehem, Nazareth, and Jerusalem to remember the events of Jesus’ life, which gave shape to the community of faith. A family’s first home is an important place because of the many foundational events that occur there. Likewise, places where a community experience a crisis, marks an important transition, or experiences significant growth becomes places charged with meaning.” (Hamma 18) Norris’s Dakota speaks of this significance of place on the individual and communal levels. Her Dakota is filled with the stories of this land, and her love of the people who inhabit it. “Few appreciate the harsh beauty of a land that rolls like the ocean floor it once was, where dry winds scour out buttes, and the temperature can reach 110 degrees above or plunge to 30 below zero for a week or more. Say what you will about our climate, in Dakota we say it keeps the riff-raff out.” (Norris 26) Norris loves the people of this land and respects those who live here. She realizes the harshness of this terrain, and she has both respect and admiration for its people when writing of the isolation that takes its toll. However, this isolation also brings what she calls “prairie wisdom.” Simple, practical, and born from emptiness - this is the wisdom of the Dakotas. “Here we discover the paradox of the contemplative life, that the desert of solitude can be the school where we learn to love others.” (Norris 121)

And love she does. The people of Dakota are afraid of change and the author worries that this may eliminate any future of hope. How true this is of the special places in our lives that need change to survive, yet we remain fearful this change will make our place different. She’s concerned for her place and the future of this place as well. We need to care for the land we inhabit so future generations can draw sustenance and life from the same place. Place keeps us alive, however we need to keep place alive! She speaks of the importance of the oral tradition and its importance in regards to place. “The country people of Dakota, like poets like monks, are as Jean Cocteau once said of poetry, “useless but indispensable.” (Norris 41) Our stories keep both the land and the spirit alive. We cannot forget our past or we will lose part of our place. There is a guarded sense of community in this place and those that come from the “outside world.” People here have seen others come and go, leaving them with a sense of distrust to anyone who may come to live here. “Small towns need a degree of insularity in order to preserve themselves. But insularity becomes destructive when ministers, teachers, and librarians grow weary of pretending not to know what they know, and either leave or cease to offer themselves as resources whose knowledge could benefit the community.” (Norris 61) Norris speaks candidly about her fears for Dakota, yet her love of this land is indisputable. She worries about the future of this place – this sacred place. Dakota has become a part of Norris and she has become a part of Dakota. This is true about the places of our lives. We leave our tracks behind and these places leave their footprints on our soul.

This land has allowed her inner space to reflect the outer expanse of the Dakotas - wide-open spaces and endless sky. Her internal landscape reflects this largeness of space, which provides fullness to her spirit. She writes of one incident where she had to return to New York to visit a dear friend and the contrast she experienced on her arrival, “It surprises me also to find that I no longer need to visit the city – any city – to obtain what I am missing, because I don’t feel deprived. Sometimes I even seek out the desert within the city. On a recent trip to Manhattan, when a dinner date with an old friend feel through and I found myself with a free evening, I phoned some Episcopalian nuns I know and asked if I might come for vespers and dinner. While a Friday night rush hour swirled around us, we sang plainsong and then ate a meal in silence. It was what I needed to bring a hectic week to closure, a chance to recollect myself, to use a monastic term, and even to experience a bit of that peace that passes understanding.” (Norris 17) She seeks out the deserts that surround her. She is drawn to this type of landscape – these terrains – and the Great Plains have become her monastery – her “desert within a desert.” (Norris 17).

She finds comfort in these monasteries, especially amongst the Benedictines, where she finds herself surprisingly at home. This “desert within a desert” is where she finds contemplation, silence, and a sense of community. She is at home in the monastery of the Plains as well as the cloister. In both, she finds communion with the Divine. She compares small town living to life in a monastery, “The monasteries I am familiar with in Dakota also have their problems, the small-town problems of personality clashes at close quarters, of gossip, of pigeonholing people or taking them for granted. But overall they seem healthier than the small towns.” (Norris 113) Norris is tuned into the external place that surrounds her, whether in the monastic cell or her home in Lemmon (the small town she resides in South Dakota).

These places, like the spiritual life, have both shadow and light. “A leader is someone with the power to project either shadow or light onto some part of the world and onto the lives of the people who dwell there. A leader shapes the ethos in which others must live, an ethos as light-filled as heaven or as shadowy as hell. A good leader is intensely aware of the interplay of inner shadow and light, lest the act of leadership do more harm than good.” (Palmer) Her spirituality is attuned to the environment and is part of her spirituality. The shadows are just as important as the light in our journeys, and Norris is aware of this. She writes candidly about these experiences in Dakota, and she discusses how both shape her internal landscape. She leads us with wholeness and honesty into her place.

The spirituality of place is significant in our lives. God is present in us, around us, and in every person, place, and thing we encounter. We experience God through all of these. God transcends all and dwells within each of these. The places of our lives are important in our own spiritual geographies. We all remember the place we met our first love or had our first kiss. We may have a favorite home from our childhood or place to go when we need respite. We’ve crossed thresholds to places of unconditional love and doorways of hope. We remember place. The places in our lives become a part of us and we become a part of them. Like Norris’ Dakota, each one of us has a place (or places) that shape our internal landscape.

The landscape she navigates is familiar territory to me. Outwardly and inwardly, she embarks on the incredible adventure of the Spirit – her inner pilgrimage reflected in the beauty of the Dakotas. I know this place. I know the internal terrain she treads on and the wrestling with acceptance, then nothingness, and then - Everything. Place can transcend the human experience into a Divine encounter with God. When both outer and inner landscapes meet, we may encounter the Source and Ground of All Being. I am a part of the places of my life and they are a part of me. From my childhood home in the hill towns of western Massachusetts to the high desert of New Mexico – these places have shaped me. Place is significant in my spiritual life as it is to Norris in Dakota. My spiritual geography has led me to the heights of Mt. McKinley, through the British Isles, and through Europe and the Far East. I hold each of these places within me and they contain a part of me – the footprints I have left behind.

Norris does not paint a picture for us through rose-colored glasses. The spiritual geography of our lives is not an easy road to tread, and she reminds us of this. Beauty and ugliness dwell together and find their definition in the eye of the beholder. To experience a transcendent God, we must experience the wholeness of our lives – in all its paradoxes and opposites. Navigating this terrain is not for the faint of heart. We must listen to the land in which we live and inhabit. To experience the true spirituality of the places of our lives – we must stop and pay attention. God is in all things – the emptiness of a land or the fullness of it. We do not see God as God’s self but in the geographies of our lives. Place - our outer landscape - shapes the terrain of our spirits- our inner landscape. We must tend to both gardens with care, for we will see the fruits of our labor both now and in eternity.

“We see now through a glass darkly, later we shall see face to face.”

1 Cor 13:12, Paul the Apostle

Works Cited

Hamma, Robert M. Landscapes of the Soul: A Spirituality of Place. Ave Maria press: Notre Dame, IN, 1999.

Harpur, James. Sacred Tracks - 2000 Years of Chirstian Pilgrimage. Berkeley and Los Angeles, California: University of California Press, 2002.

Merriaw-Webster Online Dictionary. Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary. 16 April 2008. 16 April 2008 .

Norris, Kathleen. Dakota - A Spiritual Geography. New York: Tickner and Fields, 1993.

Palmer, Parker J. Let Your Life Speak: Listening for the Voice of Vocation. San Francisco, CA: Jossey-Bass, 2000.

Wikipedia. The Garden of Eden. 25 April 2008. 25 April 2008 .

   Throughout history there have been, “irrational freaks, malcontents, complainers, unstable deviants,” (Walker, 173) who by sheer courage and the grace of God, have resisted epistemic authority and found the power in their voice – one voice. This action – this act of courage – has toppled kingdoms and redefined systems of power. We can never underestimate the power of one. Jesus speaks to authority saying, “give therefore to the emperor the things that are the emperor’s, and to God the things that are God’s.” Matthew 22:21, (The Harper Collins Study Bible). Jesus calls us to a higher good and challenges us to stand up to authority, and he calls us to moral righteousness in giving love to our neighbor. He spoke and challenged authority, as did another woman almost two millennia later. Rosa Parks changed a nation. This working class African-American woman was tired. Exhausted both physically and mentally, she found the courage one day to sit down. "Our mistreatment was just not right, and I was tired of it.” (Parks 1994) Her decision to sit down on that bus in Montgomery, Alabama, during the segregated and racially divided South of the 1960 launched a three hundred and eighty one day boycott, and helped birth the movement of Civil Rights for all – regardless of their race. Another man at the time had a voice that contained tremendous power. Martin Luther King, Jr. had a dream:
I have a dream today. I have a dream that one day, down in Alabama, with its vicious racists, with its governor having his lips dripping with the words of interposition and nullification; one day right there in Alabama, little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers. I have a dream today. I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight, and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together. This is our hope. (King Jr. 1963)

   Liz Clinkscales had a dream also. She shared the dream of safety, security for her family, and stability. She knew “exactly what she wanted: the women and the men alike wanted land, she wanted the ballot and…consumed with the desire for schools.” (Davis, 100) Liz wanted a home, her rights as a citizen, safe place for her family’s education, and a place to live. Circumstances became difficult for her during the early 1980’s, and she found herself without a job, no income, and in need of housing. Her race, gender, and class did matter here. Liz faced hurdles that seemed insurmountable, and more importantly, dangerous. Liz agrees that, “Race remains integral to Americans’ perception of class, nevertheless. To deny its powerful, subsisting reality would be to endorse a simplistic and ultimately unhelpful evasion.” (Keller, 242) The subsidized housing units available at the time were in the projects of South Boston, known as one of the most segregated, racially charged areas in the nation. Liz Clinkscales did not have a choice. Faced with fear and persecution, she moved into these projects to survive. She not only survived, but she changed others because of her journey. This is the story of her incredible courage, her struggle with authority, and the integration of South Boston’s public housing projects. Liz Clinkscales spoke with her actions, and people – black and white – responded. What follows is the power of one voice, and a woman’s decision to take a stand.
   Following, is a snapshot of that time in history, which paved the way for other minority groups to enter this system of power that became redefined because of one voice. Liz and her family were one of the first black families that moved into the segregated public housing projects of South Boston. These projects, some of the oldest public housing units in the nation, were well known for their racist attitude towards African-Americans and the integration about to occur would alter the lives of many. A glimpse into the environment at that time is one of hostility, hatred, and violence. On April 6, 1976, State Senator William Owens said on the WGBH news, “People of color are not safe to come here to Boston, and we are asking people across the country, of color, to stay away.” (WGBH News 1976) Twelve years after the busing riots, Liz was in the midst of this atmosphere, which fueled the issues of racism, discrimination, and criminalization. The integration of the South Boston projects, which occurred in the summer of 1988, was mixed with fear, racism, and decimation. South Boston was/is an area well known as a working-class, Irish-Catholic neighborhood and received national attention during the desegregation of busing in the 1970’s and the integration of its housing projects during this summer of 1988. Liz found herself in the eye of the storm – the epicenter of injustice.
   This was an area filled with racial tension, and a minority moving into this system (within a system) caused significant concern. Susan Diesenhouse, of the New York Times, reported this when talking to a local resident:
“But memories are still fresh in South Boston of the brawls that erupted in the 1970's when a Federal judge ordered the desegregation of the public schools. People are nervous,'' Ms. Mellan said. ''Some have been here since 1949 and are scared they'll have to give up their apartments.’’ ''I hope the blacks will want to come here,'' she added. ''It's going to be tough for them. The city has to make sure they can walk down Broadway safely. The same for whites who move into Roxbury.'' 'It's Forced Housing'
“Ours is a society pervasively segmented and stratified by gender, class, race, education, professionalization, sexual practice, and other hierarchies of power and status.” (Walker, 50) Liz had three strikes working against her. She is a woman, black, and unemployed. Hers was an uphill climb in a neighborhood where not many wanted her to climb – uphill or down – period. However, she had an incredible sense of faith, and she possesses an inherent sense of justice for all. She would survive this, and she changed a very important quality in her neighbor – a white person’s perception of someone not his/her own color. This powerful transformation came with some universal characteristics. Liz is not only a black woman; she is a mother, a grandmother, someone who wanted to make a better life for herself and live an ordinary life. This sharing of roles – by black and white alike- became stepping-stones for change. Her sense of self altered the perception of those residing within the projects, and she left this place changed. Liz took a risk – and it paid off. By loving her neighbor and speaking her voice, she changed the system of power. Her courage allowed other minorities to move more easily into these projects with less fear, violence, and more importantly, as a member of the community.
   I heard Liz’s story during a small discussion group in my Howard Thurman class. She discussed her experience after commenting on this particular reflection from Howard Thurman. This particular meditation struck a chord with Liz and she spoke, from experience, of the significance of her decision that day in June during the summer of 1988:
Have you ever been in a position in which you had to stand up and be counted? Really! For most of us, life does not make the specifically dramatic demand of taking a formal stand. A friend of mine, a teacher in a certain divinity school, found himself in a faculty split over a special issue involving one of his colleagues and students. Eventually the board of trustees became involved in the affair. Then, one day, all members of the faculty had to take a position, for or against. To be for, meant to be on the side of the trustees. The issue could not be dodged; a position had to be taken. My friend took a positive stand on an issue that was vital to him and his security, for the first time in his life. His convictions put him on the side of the minority. The next fall, he was teaching at another school. In commenting on the situation he said, “For the first time in my life, I felt that I was a man. It was the first time that I could not hedge, but instead I had to take sides in accordance with the integrity of my convictions without regard to possible consequences. I became a new person, way down deep.” Of course, there are people who are always taking positions, always declaring themselves, always being counted. For such, perhaps, the dramatic character of “stand taking” is neutralized by repetition. They are professionals. There is a very important contribution made to all causes by such people. The burden of our thinking has to do with what happens when a person is pulled out of the regular routine of his life by some issue and finds himself standing up to be counted. It is a crucial experience. It means that a person is willing to take full responsibility for his actions, actions that extend beyond his little world, actions which may involve him in risk, foreign both to his temperament and to his life plan. We are living in the midst of events that make such demands upon us. The options often are very few. It is well within the possibility of the present that we shall be called upon to take a stand, which will be, for us and our kind, decisive, in terms of the life and death of the person. It may not be a bad idea to get in practice now and to develop the climate within that makes it possible for you to make up your mind – to be counted! (Thurman, 7-8)
   I sat down with Liz this afternoon to learn more about her story, and she exemplifies the power that once voice can have. “The house I was living in was sold by the landlord and I didn’t have a job at the time,” (Clinkscales 2008) she explains. Her unemployment and loss of housing happened simultaneously, and she was forced to seek public housing wherever it was available. At the time, the only emergency housing open was in the projects of South Boston. “Everything else was waiting lists and I’d be waiting for years.” (Clinkscales) I asked her if she knew what she was up against when moving to South Boston where the air was racially charged. “In 1968, my brothere tried to play a game of football against a white team in South Boston. We were violently forced out. They ran us out.” Yes, she was well aware of the unwelcoming, hostile attitude she would face, and she goes on to explain the criminal treatment she received when applying for public housing. “ My girlfriend and I were going through the exact same thing. We needed housing. When we agreed to move to South Boston we had to meet with Mayor Flynn and Commissioner Roache.” She was concerned for her safety and her civil rights being violated.
   “They (Civil Rights Lawyers for Boston Housing Authority, Mayor Flynn, Mickey Roache and Doris Bunte, Executive Director, BHA.) did criminal checks, fingerprinting…we were trying to get housing and were treated like criminals. They asked if we had skeletons in our closets so nothing would come out to stop our move.” She reflects on this brutalization and the criminal treatment she received. I asked her if white residents had to go through the same thing. “No,” was her candid, frank reply. “They had to write up a civil rights policy and they wrote a document saying how we would be protected. We had a private detective and the CDU (Community Disorders Unit) assigned to us for protection. They put me and my girlfriend at opposite ends of the projects so we couldn’t get to each other if we needed help, ” leaving her more vulnerable in the midst of tension, and keeping her apart from her friend for fear they might be “trouble” if near each other.
   As I listen to her story, I’m amazed at the incredible strength and dignity she possesses. There is a joy and strength to her that is palpable. I feel drawn to her voice and its strength because I’ve suffered an act of violence (a gay bashing in 1982). The courage to speak in the midst of violence and fear is hard. It’s damn hard. Yet, Liz never lost her voice. “We had to call the private detective and the CDU when we were leaving the house and coming home so that we could safely leave the projects. They (the private detective and CDU) would position themselves to guard us.” Liz did this for a week then says, “I’m leaving and I’m returning, but I’m not calling.” She wanted to live a normal day-to-day life, yet for pioneers like Liz, this became part of the price to pay for freedom. She was sick and tired of it, but she never sat down. She stood up in the midst of racism, oppression, and the media spotlight and held her head high. I asked her about the day of moving into South Boston and what that was like.
   “The day that I moved in they alerted the other people living in the projects and it was a media circus. That day was June 24, 1988 – a day that will remain in infamy for Liz, South Boston, and a racially divided community. “It was extremely hot and I felt like a piece of meat on display. The crowds of people, the flashbulbs, and photographers made me feel like an alien.” She may have felt like the “irrational freak,” Walker writes of. She elaborates more on her disdain for the media who were looking to project an image of her based on racial stereotypes. She mentions the empathy she has for those under the media spotlight as they seem to want to fuel a story – ignite the storm – even when there’s nothing to burn. “I had nice furniture, spoke with intelligence, and they wanted to portray me as someone who was uneducated, poor, and tasteles. They wanted to portray a stereotypical, black ‘project mentality” that I didn’t have. Another asked what is "your level of education?" I replied, "I graduated from Brighton High school and graduated from Boston Business School which both had excellent reputations.” She didn’t lose her voice, her sense of humor, or her faith. Liz Clinkscales would not back down nor become someone she was not. Liz is her authentic self - no more, no less. Liz is Liz; Miss Clinkscales to be precise.
   Being a member of this community became a matter of survival. Angela Davis writes from her jail cell, and I ponder on Liz’s role in the South Boston community, “Precisely through performing the drudgery which has long been a central expression of the socially conditioned inferiority of women, the Black woman in chains could help to lay the foundation for some degree of autonomy, both for herself and her men. Even as she was suffering under her unique oppression as female, she was thrust into the center of the slave community. She was, therefore, essential to the survival of the community.” (Davis, 17) Not only did Liz survive this ordeal, she also kept this community alive by her actions. She was "as tired" as Rosa Parks had been, and similar to Parks’ action of sitting down, she stood up. She stood up for herself, her family, her gender, and her race. Liz Clinkscales refused to have her voice stifled.
   We continued our interview, and I asked her about any blatant acts of racism she encountered, and she recalls these vividly. “At first people were standing around doing monkey gestures like apes and I faced this daily.” She recounts an incident that brought forth a chuckle from me when she describes this particular incident, “My neighbor across the hall looked at me and actually screamed. You know what I did? I looked back at her and I screamed.” Liz tells me how the residents were sternly warned about violating her civil rights, and if there were any direct threats of harm to her would result in prosecution. This blatant harassment she faced daily, but it was kept hidden from law enforcement, due to people’s fear of prosecution for violation of her civil rights. Liz held her head high and continued to be herself while her voice remained strong. “Kids came in the back yard and started yelling, ‘Get back on the boat and go back to Africa.’” She retorted with wit, “What boat? I came here in my white Chevy Cavalier.” Her humor and courage, when facing her oppressors, eventually turned the oppressor into a caring neighbor. People admired her strength, and began to see Liz beyond her skin color. They respected this courage in the midst of adversity – they respected her voice. She transformed her enemies, and they learned to love their neighbor.
   I wonder about this amazing courage that Liz had how she made up her mind to, quite simply, just be. Howard Thurman reflects on decision, and he provides some insight into the importance of decision-making:
There is no guarantee that the decision I make will not, in the end, form a mistake, a bad judgment, a movement in error. But I shall bring to bear upon it the fruits of my cumulative wisdom in living, the light from as many lamps along the way as I can see, and the greatest spiritual resources available to me. It has taken more than a thousand years to determine whether the death of the Son of Man on a cross outside the city wall was a mistake. It was madness; but with that madness, Jesus discovered a new world. (Thurman, 10)

   These decisions for our highest good are not for the faint of heart. There are elements danger, persecution, and fear that keep us in our place. The brave help eradicate the firewalls that keep us in place, and Liz is one brave woman. Jesus was brave. Rosa Parks was brave. Martin Luther King, Jr. was brave. The woman who leaves her abusive husband is brave. The gay man, who suffers a gay bashing, is brave. These individual voices, famous or unknown, perform the individual acts of courage that change epistemic authority. These people, in the shadow of death, have authentic power – a power that is life giving versus life taking. They speak their authentic voice with courage, conviction, and faith in a Power greater than themselves – God, The Great Advocate.
Barack Obama speaks to this issue of God in his speech titled, “A Call to Renewal,”
Imagine Lincoln's Second Inaugural Address without reference to "the judgments of the Lord." Or King's I Have a Dream speech without references to "all of God's children." Their summoning of a higher truth helped inspire what had seemed impossible, and move the nation to embrace a common destiny. Our failure as progressives to tap into the moral underpinnings of the nation is not just rhetorical, though. Our fear of getting "preachy" may also lead us to discount the role that values and culture play in some of our most urgent social problems. (Obama 2006)

   He addresses the significance of our faith traditions and the role that plays in changing society’s most urgent social issues. God is significant and we cannot avoid this word in discussing the power of one voice. God has given individuals, families, societies, and cultures two essential components when faced with oppression – faith and hope. “Emmanuel or Imanu'el (עִמָּנוּאֵל "God [is] with us" consists of two Hebrew words: אל (El, meaning 'God') and עמנו (Immanu, meaning 'with us.” (Wikipedia 2008) Throughout the history of humankind, the presence of God with us (Emmanuel), has given sustenance and strength to those on the margins. An unseen, transcendent Being, God gives power to our voice. We may hear this voice differently, yet there is an Inward Guide who points us in the direction of higher moral good. Finding one’s voice has an element of the Divine in it. We praise God, we lament to God, we pray to God, and we ask for guidance. The power of one voice may stem from the Heavens where the impossible becomes possible. Never underestimate the power of the Divine. Great men and women share a common denominator – the Great Voice heard in contemplation, prayer, and silence. God speaks if we listen. Jesus listened, Mrs. Parks listened, Martin Luther King, Jr. listened, and Liz listened, as have many others since our Genesis. The Great Voice births the power of one voice. Yet, where is God in the midst of great suffering?
   The answers to this question may lie both in the present and in the past. Jesus cried out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” Matthew 27:46, Mark 15:34, (Harper Collins Study Bible - NRSV) Where is God during the war in Iraq? Where is God during disaster? Where is God at the border? Where is God then? God is omnipotent. God is light as well as darkness. The Great Comforter is here, but through the walls of oppression, marginalization, and inequality, God seems hidden from our sight. Yet, there is light within the darkness. Liz never lost her faith. She credits Psalm 91 (Harper Collins Study Bible - NRSV), as her rod and staff throughout this ordeal:

   When Liz left the projects of South Boston five years later her voice remained strong, however, South Boston was a different place. The neighbors swarmed around her asking if she needed any help. She was known, by then, as Miss Clinkscales. “My neighbors looked out for me,” she said. “The media stopped coming ‘round because they couldn’t find a scandal. At Christmas time, my neighbor's wife and daughter brought brownies and a Christmas card to us. We exchanged Christmas gifts excluding him and his two sons. Over time the man and his sons learned how to say hi and smile at us if we met in the hallway.” When neighbors were asked about other minorities moving in afterwards they responded, “Fine as long as they’re like Miss Clinkscales.” Liz transformed the people of those around her and the integration of minorities into South Boston’s public housing. This one powerful voice changed her neighbor, her community, and South Boston as a whole. Because of that move, in June of 1988, and the power of one voice, minorities as a whole, were able to live in South Boston, Charleston, and East Boston – transforming these neighborhoods and paving the road for other minorities with an easier sense of integration into these housing projects. Miss Clinkscales’ voice speaks loud and clear. This is the power of one voice.

Works Cited
Clinkscales, Liz, interview by Shaun M. Gould. Interview with Liz Clinkscales (May 1, 2008).
Davis, Angela. Women, Race, & Class. New York: Vintage Books, 1981.
Diesenhouse, Susan. "Black Families Are to Move Into Projects of South Boston." New York Times, December 13, 1987.
Harper Collins Study Bible - NRSV. The Harper Collins Study Bible. San Francisco, CA: Harper Collins Publications, 2006.
Keller, Bill. Class Matters. New York: Henry Holt and Company, 2005.
King Jr., Martin Luther. I Have a Dream. 1963. http://www.quoteworld.org/speeches/i-have-a-dream (accessed April 31, 2006).
Obama, Barack. "Call to Renewal Keynote Address." Barack Obama. June 28, 2006. http://obama.senate.gov/speech/060628-call_to_renewal/ (accessed April 31, 2008).
Parks, Rosa with Reed, Gregory. Quiet Strenth: The Faith, the Hope, and the Heart, of a Woman Who Changed a Nation. Zondervan Publishing House, 1994.
Thurman, Howard. Deep is the Hunger. New York: Harper, 1951.
Walker, Margaret. Moral Understandings: A Feminist Study in Ethics. New York: Routledge, 1998.
WGBH News. People of Color Not Safe. News Broadcast, Boston, MA: April, 1976.
Wikipedia. "Immanuel." Wikipedia. April 31, 2008. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emmanuel (accessed April 2008, 2008).

   Throughout history there have been, “irrational freaks, malcontents, complainers, unstable deviants,” (Walker, 173) who by sheer courage and the grace of God, have resisted epistemic authority and found the power in their voice – one voice. This action – this act of courage – has toppled kingdoms and redefined systems of power. We can never underestimate the power of one. Jesus speaks to authority saying, “give therefore to the emperor the things that are the emperor’s, and to God the things that are God’s.” Matthew 22:21, (The Harper Collins Study Bible). Jesus calls us to a higher good and challenges us to stand up to authority, and he calls us to moral righteousness in giving love to our neighbor. He spoke and challenged authority, as did another woman almost two millennia later. Rosa Parks changed a nation. This working class African-American woman was tired. Exhausted both physically and mentally, she found the courage one day to sit down. "Our mistreatment was just not right, and I was tired of it.” (Parks 1994) Her decision to sit down on that bus in Montgomery, Alabama, during the segregated and racially divided South of the 1960 launched a three hundred and eighty one day boycott, and helped birth the movement of Civil Rights for all – regardless of their race. Another man at the time had a voice that contained tremendous power. Martin Luther King, Jr. had a dream:
I have a dream today. I have a dream that one day, down in Alabama, with its vicious racists, with its governor having his lips dripping with the words of interposition and nullification; one day right there in Alabama, little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers. I have a dream today. I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight, and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together. This is our hope. (King Jr. 1963)

   Liz Clinkscales had a dream also. She shared the dream of safety, security for her family, and stability. She knew “exactly what she wanted: the women and the men alike wanted land, she wanted the ballot and…consumed with the desire for schools.” (Davis, 100) Liz wanted a home, her rights as a citizen, safe place for her family’s education, and a place to live. Circumstances became difficult for her during the early 1980’s, and she found herself without a job, no income, and in need of housing. Her race, gender, and class did matter here. Liz faced hurdles that seemed insurmountable, and more importantly, dangerous. Liz agrees that, “Race remains integral to Americans’ perception of class, nevertheless. To deny its powerful, subsisting reality would be to endorse a simplistic and ultimately unhelpful evasion.” (Keller, 242) The subsidized housing units available at the time were in the projects of South Boston, known as one of the most segregated, racially charged areas in the nation. Liz Clinkscales did not have a choice. Faced with fear and persecution, she moved into these projects to survive. She not only survived, but she changed others because of her journey. This is the story of her incredible courage, her struggle with authority, and the integration of South Boston’s public housing projects. Liz Clinkscales spoke with her actions, and people – black and white – responded. What follows is the power of one voice, and a woman’s decision to take a stand.
   Following, is a snapshot of that time in history, which paved the way for other minority groups to enter this system of power that became redefined because of one voice. Liz and her family were one of the first black families that moved into the segregated public housing projects of South Boston. These projects, some of the oldest public housing units in the nation, were well known for their racist attitude towards African-Americans and the integration about to occur would alter the lives of many. A glimpse into the environment at that time is one of hostility, hatred, and violence. On April 6, 1976, State Senator William Owens said on the WGBH news, “People of color are not safe to come here to Boston, and we are asking people across the country, of color, to stay away.” (WGBH News 1976) Twelve years after the busing riots, Liz was in the midst of this atmosphere, which fueled the issues of racism, discrimination, and criminalization. The integration of the South Boston projects, which occurred in the summer of 1988, was mixed with fear, racism, and decimation. South Boston was/is an area well known as a working-class, Irish-Catholic neighborhood and received national attention during the desegregation of busing in the 1970’s and the integration of its housing projects during this summer of 1988. Liz found herself in the eye of the storm – the epicenter of injustice.
   This was an area filled with racial tension, and a minority moving into this system (within a system) caused significant concern. Susan Diesenhouse, of the New York Times, reported this when talking to a local resident:
“But memories are still fresh in South Boston of the brawls that erupted in the 1970's when a Federal judge ordered the desegregation of the public schools. People are nervous,'' Ms. Mellan said. ''Some have been here since 1949 and are scared they'll have to give up their apartments.’’ ''I hope the blacks will want to come here,'' she added. ''It's going to be tough for them. The city has to make sure they can walk down Broadway safely. The same for whites who move into Roxbury.'' 'It's Forced Housing'
“Ours is a society pervasively segmented and stratified by gender, class, race, education, professionalization, sexual practice, and other hierarchies of power and status.” (Walker, 50) Liz had three strikes working against her. She is a woman, black, and unemployed. Hers was an uphill climb in a neighborhood where not many wanted her to climb – uphill or down – period. However, she had an incredible sense of faith, and she possesses an inherent sense of justice for all. She would survive this, and she changed a very important quality in her neighbor – a white person’s perception of someone not his/her own color. This powerful transformation came with some universal characteristics. Liz is not only a black woman; she is a mother, a grandmother, someone who wanted to make a better life for herself and live an ordinary life. This sharing of roles – by black and white alike- became stepping-stones for change. Her sense of self altered the perception of those residing within the projects, and she left this place changed. Liz took a risk – and it paid off. By loving her neighbor and speaking her voice, she changed the system of power. Her courage allowed other minorities to move more easily into these projects with less fear, violence, and more importantly, as a member of the community.
   I heard Liz’s story during a small discussion group in my Howard Thurman class. She discussed her experience after commenting on this particular reflection from Howard Thurman. This particular meditation struck a chord with Liz and she spoke, from experience, of the significance of her decision that day in June during the summer of 1988:
Have you ever been in a position in which you had to stand up and be counted? Really! For most of us, life does not make the specifically dramatic demand of taking a formal stand. A friend of mine, a teacher in a certain divinity school, found himself in a faculty split over a special issue involving one of his colleagues and students. Eventually the board of trustees became involved in the affair. Then, one day, all members of the faculty had to take a position, for or against. To be for, meant to be on the side of the trustees. The issue could not be dodged; a position had to be taken. My friend took a positive stand on an issue that was vital to him and his security, for the first time in his life. His convictions put him on the side of the minority. The next fall, he was teaching at another school. In commenting on the situation he said, “For the first time in my life, I felt that I was a man. It was the first time that I could not hedge, but instead I had to take sides in accordance with the integrity of my convictions without regard to possible consequences. I became a new person, way down deep.” Of course, there are people who are always taking positions, always declaring themselves, always being counted. For such, perhaps, the dramatic character of “stand taking” is neutralized by repetition. They are professionals. There is a very important contribution made to all causes by such people. The burden of our thinking has to do with what happens when a person is pulled out of the regular routine of his life by some issue and finds himself standing up to be counted. It is a crucial experience. It means that a person is willing to take full responsibility for his actions, actions that extend beyond his little world, actions which may involve him in risk, foreign both to his temperament and to his life plan. We are living in the midst of events that make such demands upon us. The options often are very few. It is well within the possibility of the present that we shall be called upon to take a stand, which will be, for us and our kind, decisive, in terms of the life and death of the person. It may not be a bad idea to get in practice now and to develop the climate within that makes it possible for you to make up your mind – to be counted! (Thurman, 7-8)
   I sat down with Liz this afternoon to learn more about her story, and she exemplifies the power that once voice can have. “The house I was living in was sold by the landlord and I didn’t have a job at the time,” (Clinkscales 2008) she explains. Her unemployment and loss of housing happened simultaneously, and she was forced to seek public housing wherever it was available. At the time, the only emergency housing open was in the projects of South Boston. “Everything else was waiting lists and I’d be waiting for years.” (Clinkscales) I asked her if she knew what she was up against when moving to South Boston where the air was racially charged. “In 1968, my brothere tried to play a game of football against a white team in South Boston. We were violently forced out. They ran us out.” Yes, she was well aware of the unwelcoming, hostile attitude she would face, and she goes on to explain the criminal treatment she received when applying for public housing. “ My girlfriend and I were going through the exact same thing. We needed housing. When we agreed to move to South Boston we had to meet with Mayor Flynn and Commissioner Roache.” She was concerned for her safety and her civil rights being violated.
   “They (Civil Rights Lawyers for Boston Housing Authority, Mayor Flynn, Mickey Roache and Doris Bunte, Executive Director, BHA.) did criminal checks, fingerprinting…we were trying to get housing and were treated like criminals. They asked if we had skeletons in our closets so nothing would come out to stop our move.” She reflects on this brutalization and the criminal treatment she received. I asked her if white residents had to go through the same thing. “No,” was her candid, frank reply. “They had to write up a civil rights policy and they wrote a document saying how we would be protected. We had a private detective and the CDU (Community Disorders Unit) assigned to us for protection. They put me and my girlfriend at opposite ends of the projects so we couldn’t get to each other if we needed help, ” leaving her more vulnerable in the midst of tension, and keeping her apart from her friend for fear they might be “trouble” if near each other.
   As I listen to her story, I’m amazed at the incredible strength and dignity she possesses. There is a joy and strength to her that is palpable. I feel drawn to her voice and its strength because I’ve suffered an act of violence (a gay bashing in 1982). The courage to speak in the midst of violence and fear is hard. It’s damn hard. Yet, Liz never lost her voice. “We had to call the private detective and the CDU when we were leaving the house and coming home so that we could safely leave the projects. They (the private detective and CDU) would position themselves to guard us.” Liz did this for a week then says, “I’m leaving and I’m returning, but I’m not calling.” She wanted to live a normal day-to-day life, yet for pioneers like Liz, this became part of the price to pay for freedom. She was sick and tired of it, but she never sat down. She stood up in the midst of racism, oppression, and the media spotlight and held her head high. I asked her about the day of moving into South Boston and what that was like.
   “The day that I moved in they alerted the other people living in the projects and it was a media circus. That day was June 24, 1988 – a day that will remain in infamy for Liz, South Boston, and a racially divided community. “It was extremely hot and I felt like a piece of meat on display. The crowds of people, the flashbulbs, and photographers made me feel like an alien.” She may have felt like the “irrational freak,” Walker writes of. She elaborates more on her disdain for the media who were looking to project an image of her based on racial stereotypes. She mentions the empathy she has for those under the media spotlight as they seem to want to fuel a story – ignite the storm – even when there’s nothing to burn. “I had nice furniture, spoke with intelligence, and they wanted to portray me as someone who was uneducated, poor, and tasteles. They wanted to portray a stereotypical, black ‘project mentality” that I didn’t have. Another asked what is "your level of education?" I replied, "I graduated from Brighton High school and graduated from Boston Business School which both had excellent reputations.” She didn’t lose her voice, her sense of humor, or her faith. Liz Clinkscales would not back down nor become someone she was not. Liz is her authentic self - no more, no less. Liz is Liz; Miss Clinkscales to be precise.
   Being a member of this community became a matter of survival. Angela Davis writes from her jail cell, and I ponder on Liz’s role in the South Boston community, “Precisely through performing the drudgery which has long been a central expression of the socially conditioned inferiority of women, the Black woman in chains could help to lay the foundation for some degree of autonomy, both for herself and her men. Even as she was suffering under her unique oppression as female, she was thrust into the center of the slave community. She was, therefore, essential to the survival of the community.” (Davis, 17) Not only did Liz survive this ordeal, she also kept this community alive by her actions. She was "as tired" as Rosa Parks had been, and similar to Parks’ action of sitting down, she stood up. She stood up for herself, her family, her gender, and her race. Liz Clinkscales refused to have her voice stifled.
   We continued our interview, and I asked her about any blatant acts of racism she encountered, and she recalls these vividly. “At first people were standing around doing monkey gestures like apes and I faced this daily.” She recounts an incident that brought forth a chuckle from me when she describes this particular incident, “My neighbor across the hall looked at me and actually screamed. You know what I did? I looked back at her and I screamed.” Liz tells me how the residents were sternly warned about violating her civil rights, and if there were any direct threats of harm to her would result in prosecution. This blatant harassment she faced daily, but it was kept hidden from law enforcement, due to people’s fear of prosecution for violation of her civil rights. Liz held her head high and continued to be herself while her voice remained strong. “Kids came in the back yard and started yelling, ‘Get back on the boat and go back to Africa.’” She retorted with wit, “What boat? I came here in my white Chevy Cavalier.” Her humor and courage, when facing her oppressors, eventually turned the oppressor into a caring neighbor. People admired her strength, and began to see Liz beyond her skin color. They respected this courage in the midst of adversity – they respected her voice. She transformed her enemies, and they learned to love their neighbor.
   I wonder about this amazing courage that Liz had how she made up her mind to, quite simply, just be. Howard Thurman reflects on decision, and he provides some insight into the importance of decision-making:
There is no guarantee that the decision I make will not, in the end, form a mistake, a bad judgment, a movement in error. But I shall bring to bear upon it the fruits of my cumulative wisdom in living, the light from as many lamps along the way as I can see, and the greatest spiritual resources available to me. It has taken more than a thousand years to determine whether the death of the Son of Man on a cross outside the city wall was a mistake. It was madness; but with that madness, Jesus discovered a new world. (Thurman, 10)

   These decisions for our highest good are not for the faint of heart. There are elements danger, persecution, and fear that keep us in our place. The brave help eradicate the firewalls that keep us in place, and Liz is one brave woman. Jesus was brave. Rosa Parks was brave. Martin Luther King, Jr. was brave. The woman who leaves her abusive husband is brave. The gay man, who suffers a gay bashing, is brave. These individual voices, famous or unknown, perform the individual acts of courage that change epistemic authority. These people, in the shadow of death, have authentic power – a power that is life giving versus life taking. They speak their authentic voice with courage, conviction, and faith in a Power greater than themselves – God, The Great Advocate.
Barack Obama speaks to this issue of God in his speech titled, “A Call to Renewal,”
Imagine Lincoln's Second Inaugural Address without reference to "the judgments of the Lord." Or King's I Have a Dream speech without references to "all of God's children." Their summoning of a higher truth helped inspire what had seemed impossible, and move the nation to embrace a common destiny. Our failure as progressives to tap into the moral underpinnings of the nation is not just rhetorical, though. Our fear of getting "preachy" may also lead us to discount the role that values and culture play in some of our most urgent social problems. (Obama 2006)

   He addresses the significance of our faith traditions and the role that plays in changing society’s most urgent social issues. God is significant and we cannot avoid this word in discussing the power of one voice. God has given individuals, families, societies, and cultures two essential components when faced with oppression – faith and hope. “Emmanuel or Imanu'el (עִמָּנוּאֵל "God [is] with us" consists of two Hebrew words: אל (El, meaning 'God') and עמנו (Immanu, meaning 'with us.” (Wikipedia 2008) Throughout the history of humankind, the presence of God with us (Emmanuel), has given sustenance and strength to those on the margins. An unseen, transcendent Being, God gives power to our voice. We may hear this voice differently, yet there is an Inward Guide who points us in the direction of higher moral good. Finding one’s voice has an element of the Divine in it. We praise God, we lament to God, we pray to God, and we ask for guidance. The power of one voice may stem from the Heavens where the impossible becomes possible. Never underestimate the power of the Divine. Great men and women share a common denominator – the Great Voice heard in contemplation, prayer, and silence. God speaks if we listen. Jesus listened, Mrs. Parks listened, Martin Luther King, Jr. listened, and Liz listened, as have many others since our Genesis. The Great Voice births the power of one voice. Yet, where is God in the midst of great suffering?
   The answers to this question may lie both in the present and in the past. Jesus cried out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” Matthew 27:46, Mark 15:34, (Harper Collins Study Bible - NRSV) Where is God during the war in Iraq? Where is God during disaster? Where is God at the border? Where is God then? God is omnipotent. God is light as well as darkness. The Great Comforter is here, but through the walls of oppression, marginalization, and inequality, God seems hidden from our sight. Yet, there is light within the darkness. Liz never lost her faith. She credits Psalm 91 (Harper Collins Study Bible - NRSV), as her rod and staff throughout this ordeal:

   When Liz left the projects of South Boston five years later her voice remained strong, however, South Boston was a different place. The neighbors swarmed around her asking if she needed any help. She was known, by then, as Miss Clinkscales. “My neighbors looked out for me,” she said. “The media stopped coming ‘round because they couldn’t find a scandal. At Christmas time, my neighbor's wife and daughter brought brownies and a Christmas card to us. We exchanged Christmas gifts excluding him and his two sons. Over time the man and his sons learned how to say hi and smile at us if we met in the hallway.” When neighbors were asked about other minorities moving in afterwards they responded, “Fine as long as they’re like Miss Clinkscales.” Liz transformed the people of those around her and the integration of minorities into South Boston’s public housing. This one powerful voice changed her neighbor, her community, and South Boston as a whole. Because of that move, in June of 1988, and the power of one voice, minorities as a whole, were able to live in South Boston, Charleston, and East Boston – transforming these neighborhoods and paving the road for other minorities with an easier sense of integration into these housing projects. Miss Clinkscales’ voice speaks loud and clear. This is the power of one voice.

Works Cited
Clinkscales, Liz, interview by Shaun M. Gould. Interview with Liz Clinkscales (May 1, 2008).
Davis, Angela. Women, Race, & Class. New York: Vintage Books, 1981.
Diesenhouse, Susan. "Black Families Are to Move Into Projects of South Boston." New York Times, December 13, 1987.
Harper Collins Study Bible - NRSV. The Harper Collins Study Bible. San Francisco, CA: Harper Collins Publications, 2006.
Keller, Bill. Class Matters. New York: Henry Holt and Company, 2005.
King Jr., Martin Luther. I Have a Dream. 1963. http://www.quoteworld.org/speeches/i-have-a-dream (accessed April 31, 2006).
Obama, Barack. "Call to Renewal Keynote Address." Barack Obama. June 28, 2006. http://obama.senate.gov/speech/060628-call_to_renewal/ (accessed April 31, 2008).
Parks, Rosa with Reed, Gregory. Quiet Strenth: The Faith, the Hope, and the Heart, of a Woman Who Changed a Nation. Zondervan Publishing House, 1994.
Thurman, Howard. Deep is the Hunger. New York: Harper, 1951.
Walker, Margaret. Moral Understandings: A Feminist Study in Ethics. New York: Routledge, 1998.
WGBH News. People of Color Not Safe. News Broadcast, Boston, MA: April, 1976.
Wikipedia. "Immanuel." Wikipedia. April 31, 2008. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emmanuel (accessed April 2008, 2008).

Let Your Life Speak

I was in my early thirties when I began, literally, to wake up to the questions about my vocation. By all appearances, things were going well, but the soul does not put much stock in appearances. Seeking a path more purposeful than accumulating wealth, holding power, winning at competition, or securing a career, I had started to understand that it is indeed possible to live a life other than one’s own. Fearful that I was doing just that-but uncertain about the deeper, truer life I sensed hidden inside me, uncertain whether it was real or trustworthy or within reach – I would snap awake in the middle of the night and stare for long hours at the ceiling. Then I ran across the old Quaker saying. “Let your life speak.” [1]

Palmer Parker’s book, Let Your Life Speak, is one of those books - in the plethora of many – that have spoken to me in a loud and clearly distinct voice. Parker, a Quaker, had my interest from page one as this situation parallels my own. It was in my thirties that the voices of the external began to silence themselves, and my Inward Light emerged, however, this did not come without many trials as well as tribulations. What I learned to do was one simple, yet paradoxically difficult, thing. I began to listen, really listen.

For many years, the noises of this world became the rhythm that my life marched to the beat of. I was a “country boy “by birth and “city slicker” by choice. Instilled in me since childhood, was the belief that money, ambition, and power would open the doors to happiness and the good life. From the dotcom craze of the late 1980’s and early 1990’s to the doors of the Bay Area’s finest establishments, I should have felt this happiness according to the belief of this mythical American Dream. “More, more, more,” seemed to be the world I was residing in, yet I never really felt at home. I had an emptiness that could not be filled with dollar bills, fine wine, or stock options. I had a hole in my heart, a deprived Spirit, and the noises of my world had stopped me from listening to my life. This void struck me at the core of my being - a physical ache felt right at my solar plexus.

I recall a day when a light bulb seemed to go on within me. I was having conversation with the Vice President of the company I was working for at the time. In his sixties, Manny was an old-fashioned executive who built his success in big business and measured success in the assets he acquired. “Shaun, it’s a rat race out there and in order to survive you have to become one of the rats.” I recall this line with distinct precision. My immediate thought was this. “I DON’T WANT TO BECOME ONE OF THE RATS, a voice inside me screamed. This is not me, this is not authentic, and this is not bringing me joy. Something had to change and I could not count on changing anyone but myself. I needed to listen to the voice that was pleading for me to wake up.

I began the process of letting my life speak. One of the first things I did (as all this did not come in one instant revelation but rather a series of synchronistic events) was to begin my search for places that would feed my spirit – houses of worship where I felt a sense of home. I began this search with the house that was familiar to me – the Catholic Church. This was the faith of my origin and “a journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step.” [2] My spirit sat uncomfortably here, and I continued my quest. I had met a wonderful woman, a member of the Society of Friends, for spiritual direction. She did an amazing thing. She listened, and she listened deeply. With all the chattering bubbling forth from within me, she sat with me in deep compassion and heard the things I needed to say. Her guidance led me to both the United Church of Christ and my other home – the Quakers.

The expectant waiting and silent worship of my first Quaker Meeting remain fresh in my memory. My head was so filled with distractions and noise that it took significant discipline just to sit through the hour. However, I felt something here – a palpable presence that kept me coming back for more. I was in the infancy stage of really listening to my life. The fundamental question began to shift from, “What do I want to do with my life?” to “What does my life want to do with me?” My efforts of trying to control my destiny and have happiness defined by others began changing. What I began to notice was that I was filled with joy when in community and serving others. This life is a gift and I needed to use mine to serve others in some way, shape, or form. During this time, an experience happened that reinforced this examination of my heart. I lost my best friend suddenly.

Rae was a woman that was like a good buddy. She knew the things "men" tend to know; changing oil, auto mechanics, sports statistics, and many things this gay man did not. She "straight"-ened me up a bit. This lesbian was the buddy I never had. We would spend weekends at each other’s apartments, go see the Giants on weekends, and call each other to talk about nothing and everything. One weekend I was over at her apartment she complained of the flu and a persistent cough. Four weeks later, she was dead. Shock, disbelief, and grief washed over me like rain. I was faced with the first real loss of my life.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil: For thou art with me;
Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies;
Thou annointest my head with oil; My cup runneth over.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life,
and I will dwell in the House of the Lord forever.[3]

The shadow of death had touched my life. Yet, in retrospect, it shed volumes of Light upon my existence. While driving home from her funeral, I suddenly had the most lucid of moments. I was fully alive. Everything – EVERYTHING – seemed to be filled with life. The flowers were colored with vivid pastels, nature’s greens became crystal clear, and blood was pulsing through my veins. I had been granted this gift of life – the awareness of being alive. I began to listen to what life wanted of me and not the other way around.

My home with the Quakers and another vibrant community, the United Church of Christ, allowed me to leave my head behind and move into my heart. My life experiences embodied me and by realizing and embracing these wholly, I began to see the holiness in all things. Created in God’s image, I began to be more compassionate with myself and I spread this compassion outward. Like the pebble that is cast in a pond, the realization of God’s love has ripple effects.

I started to respond to what I heard. The noise still existed externally, but my response internally had shifted. I needed to transform my suffering - my own shadows – in order to shed light on the shadows of my neighbor. Henri Nouwen writes of this in, The Wounded Healer:

At the heart are unresolved wounds –anger, grief, frustration – and the need to acknowledge and work to heal them. Don’t merely touch me, Doubting Thomas, said Jesus, but touch my wounds! [Gospel according to John: ]. . . to be healed.[4]

My life leads me now, although I battle with self on a regular basis. I listen more with insight and compassion towards myself, as well as the people who are in my life – friend and foe. I am blessed at this very moment. I am alive. And that’s an amazing gift to share with others. I had awakened to life’s call after years of external deterrents. This is my response - my answer continues to unfold.

Don't ask yourself what the world needs, ask yourself what makes you come alive. And then go and do that. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive." Howard Thurman

Let Your Life Speak

I was in my early thirties when I began, literally, to wake up to the questions about my vocation. By all appearances, things were going well, but the soul does not put much stock in appearances. Seeking a path more purposeful than accumulating wealth, holding power, winning at competition, or securing a career, I had started to understand that it is indeed possible to live a life other than one’s own. Fearful that I was doing just that-but uncertain about the deeper, truer life I sensed hidden inside me, uncertain whether it was real or trustworthy or within reach – I would snap awake in the middle of the night and stare for long hours at the ceiling. Then I ran across the old Quaker saying. “Let your life speak.” [1]

Palmer Parker’s book, Let Your Life Speak, is one of those books - in the plethora of many – that have spoken to me in a loud and clearly distinct voice. Parker, a Quaker, had my interest from page one as this situation parallels my own. It was in my thirties that the voices of the external began to silence themselves, and my Inward Light emerged, however, this did not come without many trials as well as tribulations. What I learned to do was one simple, yet paradoxically difficult, thing. I began to listen, really listen.

For many years, the noises of this world became the rhythm that my life marched to the beat of. I was a “country boy “by birth and “city slicker” by choice. Instilled in me since childhood, was the belief that money, ambition, and power would open the doors to happiness and the good life. From the dotcom craze of the late 1980’s and early 1990’s to the doors of the Bay Area’s finest establishments, I should have felt this happiness according to the belief of this mythical American Dream. “More, more, more,” seemed to be the world I was residing in, yet I never really felt at home. I had an emptiness that could not be filled with dollar bills, fine wine, or stock options. I had a hole in my heart, a deprived Spirit, and the noises of my world had stopped me from listening to my life. This void struck me at the core of my being - a physical ache felt right at my solar plexus.

I recall a day when a light bulb seemed to go on within me. I was having conversation with the Vice President of the company I was working for at the time. In his sixties, Manny was an old-fashioned executive who built his success in big business and measured success in the assets he acquired. “Shaun, it’s a rat race out there and in order to survive you have to become one of the rats.” I recall this line with distinct precision. My immediate thought was this. “I DON’T WANT TO BECOME ONE OF THE RATS, a voice inside me screamed. This is not me, this is not authentic, and this is not bringing me joy. Something had to change and I could not count on changing anyone but myself. I needed to listen to the voice that was pleading for me to wake up.

I began the process of letting my life speak. One of the first things I did (as all this did not come in one instant revelation but rather a series of synchronistic events) was to begin my search for places that would feed my spirit – houses of worship where I felt a sense of home. I began this search with the house that was familiar to me – the Catholic Church. This was the faith of my origin and “a journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step.” [2] My spirit sat uncomfortably here, and I continued my quest. I had met a wonderful woman, a member of the Society of Friends, for spiritual direction. She did an amazing thing. She listened, and she listened deeply. With all the chattering bubbling forth from within me, she sat with me in deep compassion and heard the things I needed to say. Her guidance led me to both the United Church of Christ and my other home – the Quakers.

The expectant waiting and silent worship of my first Quaker Meeting remain fresh in my memory. My head was so filled with distractions and noise that it took significant discipline just to sit through the hour. However, I felt something here – a palpable presence that kept me coming back for more. I was in the infancy stage of really listening to my life. The fundamental question began to shift from, “What do I want to do with my life?” to “What does my life want to do with me?” My efforts of trying to control my destiny and have happiness defined by others began changing. What I began to notice was that I was filled with joy when in community and serving others. This life is a gift and I needed to use mine to serve others in some way, shape, or form. During this time, an experience happened that reinforced this examination of my heart. I lost my best friend suddenly.

Rae was a woman that was like a good buddy. She knew the things "men" tend to know; changing oil, auto mechanics, sports statistics, and many things this gay man did not. She "straight"-ened me up a bit. This lesbian was the buddy I never had. We would spend weekends at each other’s apartments, go see the Giants on weekends, and call each other to talk about nothing and everything. One weekend I was over at her apartment she complained of the flu and a persistent cough. Four weeks later, she was dead. Shock, disbelief, and grief washed over me like rain. I was faced with the first real loss of my life.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil: For thou art with me;
Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies;
Thou annointest my head with oil; My cup runneth over.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life,
and I will dwell in the House of the Lord forever.[3]

The shadow of death had touched my life. Yet, in retrospect, it shed volumes of Light upon my existence. While driving home from her funeral, I suddenly had the most lucid of moments. I was fully alive. Everything – EVERYTHING – seemed to be filled with life. The flowers were colored with vivid pastels, nature’s greens became crystal clear, and blood was pulsing through my veins. I had been granted this gift of life – the awareness of being alive. I began to listen to what life wanted of me and not the other way around.

My home with the Quakers and another vibrant community, the United Church of Christ, allowed me to leave my head behind and move into my heart. My life experiences embodied me and by realizing and embracing these wholly, I began to see the holiness in all things. Created in God’s image, I began to be more compassionate with myself and I spread this compassion outward. Like the pebble that is cast in a pond, the realization of God’s love has ripple effects.

I started to respond to what I heard. The noise still existed externally, but my response internally had shifted. I needed to transform my suffering - my own shadows – in order to shed light on the shadows of my neighbor. Henri Nouwen writes of this in, The Wounded Healer:

At the heart are unresolved wounds –anger, grief, frustration – and the need to acknowledge and work to heal them. Don’t merely touch me, Doubting Thomas, said Jesus, but touch my wounds! [Gospel according to John: ]. . . to be healed.[4]

My life leads me now, although I battle with self on a regular basis. I listen more with insight and compassion towards myself, as well as the people who are in my life – friend and foe. I am blessed at this very moment. I am alive. And that’s an amazing gift to share with others. I had awakened to life’s call after years of external deterrents. This is my response - my answer continues to unfold.

Don't ask yourself what the world needs, ask yourself what makes you come alive. And then go and do that. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive." Howard Thurman

Easter Pilgrimage

My Journey Home

“Then we can come back to the place where we began and know it for the first time because the person who comes back is, in truth, different from the person who left.”

Returning four years later to the place I was baptized on Easter Sunday brought tears to this pilgrim’s eyes and left me grateful for the Light of Christ, the Minister who spoke bravely about racism, and finally the precious gift of Life. My pilgrimage is a story of suffering transformed and like the risen Christ - my Spirit was brought to new life. I did not know this would be the place of my pilgrimage when I began my journey this Lenten season, but circumstance and synchronicity intervened and, I ended up back at the place where, as an adult, I publicly confessed my faith in Jesus Christ.
“Pilgrimage is a journey, a ritual, a commemoration, a search for something, perhaps something the pilgrim cannot express in words, perhaps even something the pilgrim does not fully perceive,” according to the text. This definition describes my experience; my journey included the ritual of leaving something behind and an honoring of the Divine – which I perceive through the people, places, and things of the world where God dwells – this omnipotent Presence that infuses all things and makes them holy.
From the Ash Wednesday service I attended at Hope Church in Roslindale, MA, I had been carrying with me three relics that I took from the service. My journal from that day read:

Something happened tonight. I felt I was broken open or needed to let some things go. I went to Hope Church - a UCC/DOC emerging church for their Ash Wednesday service. The Welcome in the bulletin read, "Ash Wednesday marks our entry into the journey of Lent. At the heart of this day is a reminder of this reality: God is God, and we are not." Stations were setup throughout the church. The bead is taken from the station, Return to Me. It read" Run your fingers through God's baptismal water and remember that you are loved and forgiven. Take a 'bead of water' to carry with your during Lent-may it remind you that even as you wander through the wilderness, 'You are God's beloved.'" I'm not sure if it was the service filled with simple, yet beautiful Taize chants or me feeling a bit overwhelmed, while I work on both my MDiv degree here and another in Information Technology at Northeastern and working in between. It may be all of these things or none of them but I was moved to tears. I needed to release this self, this ego, and this pressure from within. The feeling came unexpectedly. I'm not sure what happened. One minute I'm humming the Taize chants and then I felt this release come over me. I feel tears are sacred, holy. It helps to cry, I know this. Yet, where was this coming from? I do not know.. I felt the salt water trickling down my cheeks as I walked up to have my forehead marked with ashes - a symbol for this Lenten journey, this pilgrimage. I will carry these talismans above throughout this journey to remind myself that God is God and I, definitely, am not.

These talismans were with me these forty days and forty nights, and I buried them at the Peace Pole that stands outside First Congregational Church - leaving a part of myself behind. The days before Easter were spent in tying up loose ends for my journey west - my preparation. On Holy Saturday, there seemed to be an air of expectant waiting and preparation that permeated the air. I cannot help but ponder upon the reflection that I received from the United Church of Christ’s Lenten meditations. The synchronicity of the day and the parallels that exist with my pilgrimage seem quite significant. The meditation read as follows:

The Day of No Preparation
John 19:38-42

This day is so different from those on either side. The Good Friday cries of "Crucify Him!" have receded, but they have not yet been replaced by the "Alleluias" of Easter. So this day can have a kind of eerie quiet about it. According to this passage from John, the day before Easter falls on the Day of Preparation, that is, a holy day when Jews ritually prepare their homes to celebrate the Passover by cleaning out every trace of yeast because the Passover meal is celebrated with unleavened bread. And Nicodemus makes a return visit in this passage to prepare Jesus' body for burial, another ancient ritual. This day before Easter we may be involved with our own kind of preparations, as well--perhaps beginning preparations for Easter dinner or even preparing an Easter sermon.

The day had quietness to it – a sense of no busy-ness that I reveled in. When I slow down to the pace of life, doing one thing at a time instead of multitasking, I become aware of God’s gifts and my surroundings. I listen to the seven different chirps of a bird that sings from the persimmon tree in our backyard. I rock back and forth on the swing feeding the two cats in the neighborhood that I have loved for years. I enjoy the simple task of going to the supermarket with a man I’ve know for a decade and chuckle at the idiosyncrasies of day to day living. These acts are sacred for they do have a sense of preparation in them – a holiness that turns the ordinary into the extraordinary. This is how I spent this day. My personal preparation spent with a sense of waiting for the miracle of all miracles – Easter Sunday.
Sunday morning my friend Janet and I drove the twists and turns of Highway 17 from San Jose to my church home in Santa Cruz. The wonders of spring filled my senses; my eyes lit from the sunny skies and colorful garb of Easter apparel, the sounds of well wishes and Easter greetings from the pastor and parishioners of the church, the smell of trees and flowers in bloom, the touch of hands and hugs filled with Easter blessings and God’s peace.
The universal archetype of home overflowed the well of my Spirit. During the Jazz service I listened to the bluesy singer fill the room with her sultry rendition of the Beatle’s song, “Here Comes the Sun” and tapped my foot to the saxophone wailing the tune of, “Oh, Mary don’t you weep.” Tears sprung forth from my eyes. My friend asked if I was ok. I answered, “I’m absolutely fine. My heart is open.” We then went to the Peace Pole and I left the talismans I had carried – a part of me left behind at this place that bears such good fruit, this Holy place - a place I call home.

Easter Pilgrimage

My Journey Home

“Then we can come back to the place where we began and know it for the first time because the person who comes back is, in truth, different from the person who left.”

Returning four years later to the place I was baptized on Easter Sunday brought tears to this pilgrim’s eyes and left me grateful for the Light of Christ, the Minister who spoke bravely about racism, and finally the precious gift of Life. My pilgrimage is a story of suffering transformed and like the risen Christ - my Spirit was brought to new life. I did not know this would be the place of my pilgrimage when I began my journey this Lenten season, but circumstance and synchronicity intervened and, I ended up back at the place where, as an adult, I publicly confessed my faith in Jesus Christ.
“Pilgrimage is a journey, a ritual, a commemoration, a search for something, perhaps something the pilgrim cannot express in words, perhaps even something the pilgrim does not fully perceive,” according to the text. This definition describes my experience; my journey included the ritual of leaving something behind and an honoring of the Divine – which I perceive through the people, places, and things of the world where God dwells – this omnipotent Presence that infuses all things and makes them holy.
From the Ash Wednesday service I attended at Hope Church in Roslindale, MA, I had been carrying with me three relics that I took from the service. My journal from that day read:

Something happened tonight. I felt I was broken open or needed to let some things go. I went to Hope Church - a UCC/DOC emerging church for their Ash Wednesday service. The Welcome in the bulletin read, "Ash Wednesday marks our entry into the journey of Lent. At the heart of this day is a reminder of this reality: God is God, and we are not." Stations were setup throughout the church. The bead is taken from the station, Return to Me. It read" Run your fingers through God's baptismal water and remember that you are loved and forgiven. Take a 'bead of water' to carry with your during Lent-may it remind you that even as you wander through the wilderness, 'You are God's beloved.'" I'm not sure if it was the service filled with simple, yet beautiful Taize chants or me feeling a bit overwhelmed, while I work on both my MDiv degree here and another in Information Technology at Northeastern and working in between. It may be all of these things or none of them but I was moved to tears. I needed to release this self, this ego, and this pressure from within. The feeling came unexpectedly. I'm not sure what happened. One minute I'm humming the Taize chants and then I felt this release come over me. I feel tears are sacred, holy. It helps to cry, I know this. Yet, where was this coming from? I do not know.. I felt the salt water trickling down my cheeks as I walked up to have my forehead marked with ashes - a symbol for this Lenten journey, this pilgrimage. I will carry these talismans above throughout this journey to remind myself that God is God and I, definitely, am not.

These talismans were with me these forty days and forty nights, and I buried them at the Peace Pole that stands outside First Congregational Church - leaving a part of myself behind. The days before Easter were spent in tying up loose ends for my journey west - my preparation. On Holy Saturday, there seemed to be an air of expectant waiting and preparation that permeated the air. I cannot help but ponder upon the reflection that I received from the United Church of Christ’s Lenten meditations. The synchronicity of the day and the parallels that exist with my pilgrimage seem quite significant. The meditation read as follows:

The Day of No Preparation
John 19:38-42

This day is so different from those on either side. The Good Friday cries of "Crucify Him!" have receded, but they have not yet been replaced by the "Alleluias" of Easter. So this day can have a kind of eerie quiet about it. According to this passage from John, the day before Easter falls on the Day of Preparation, that is, a holy day when Jews ritually prepare their homes to celebrate the Passover by cleaning out every trace of yeast because the Passover meal is celebrated with unleavened bread. And Nicodemus makes a return visit in this passage to prepare Jesus' body for burial, another ancient ritual. This day before Easter we may be involved with our own kind of preparations, as well--perhaps beginning preparations for Easter dinner or even preparing an Easter sermon.

The day had quietness to it – a sense of no busy-ness that I reveled in. When I slow down to the pace of life, doing one thing at a time instead of multitasking, I become aware of God’s gifts and my surroundings. I listen to the seven different chirps of a bird that sings from the persimmon tree in our backyard. I rock back and forth on the swing feeding the two cats in the neighborhood that I have loved for years. I enjoy the simple task of going to the supermarket with a man I’ve know for a decade and chuckle at the idiosyncrasies of day to day living. These acts are sacred for they do have a sense of preparation in them – a holiness that turns the ordinary into the extraordinary. This is how I spent this day. My personal preparation spent with a sense of waiting for the miracle of all miracles – Easter Sunday.
Sunday morning my friend Janet and I drove the twists and turns of Highway 17 from San Jose to my church home in Santa Cruz. The wonders of spring filled my senses; my eyes lit from the sunny skies and colorful garb of Easter apparel, the sounds of well wishes and Easter greetings from the pastor and parishioners of the church, the smell of trees and flowers in bloom, the touch of hands and hugs filled with Easter blessings and God’s peace.
The universal archetype of home overflowed the well of my Spirit. During the Jazz service I listened to the bluesy singer fill the room with her sultry rendition of the Beatle’s song, “Here Comes the Sun” and tapped my foot to the saxophone wailing the tune of, “Oh, Mary don’t you weep.” Tears sprung forth from my eyes. My friend asked if I was ok. I answered, “I’m absolutely fine. My heart is open.” We then went to the Peace Pole and I left the talismans I had carried – a part of me left behind at this place that bears such good fruit, this Holy place - a place I call home.

Leaving something behind: Milagros, AIDS, and Best Friends

When I lived in Santa Fe, New Mexico back in the early 1990’s, I became enchanted with Milagro crosses and I began to collect them. Milagro is the Spanish word for “miracle.” Here’s a brief history of Milagros taken from Wikipedia. (Milagros) .  People would leave these charms behind at various pilgrimage sites for prayers of healing or for thanksgiving. New Mexican folk art would then make crosses, of various design, from these sacred charms. One of my most precious possessions is a milagro cross that my best friend gave me for my birthday one year. I think part of that stems from his generous spirit and part of the miracle is his being alive after living twenty plus years now with AIDS. To me, he’s the miracle yet at times I don’t think he even see this.I remember the day we went to Santuario  de Chimayo, a beautiful pilgrimage spot just north of Santa Fe. We both went with intent for prayers of healing and relief; he went to offer a prayer for Ken, his lover, who died that year. I went for sorrows I carried inside of grief and loss. We both took some of the sacred dirt from that place.  I remember the journey.  Unlike many pilgrims, we didn’t walk the 30 or so miles from Santa Fe to the shrine there. We drove in a mindful sort of way: moments of silence were interspersed with conversation about what was going on in our lives – the nitty gritty. I miss that about having him nearby. Even though he is miles away, we still can pick up where we left off – then and now. I left a few things of myself behind at Chimayo; a prayer, a lit candle, and some heaviness of heart. This leaving behind released some sorrow, some ego, and allowed room for Spirt to move - to let "Way open" as my Friends the Quakers might say. I also have a tendency to leave a token behind of something personal I may have in my wallet at the time-something with my stamp on it - a milagro. I receive these miracles back in diffent forms like the survival of my best friend, hope, and an overwhelming gratitude for the gift of life.