Chris, Like Paul, the more time breathing really resonated. I snagged a photo of it so that when I am scrolling the camera roll, it causes me to pause - yet again. Hope you are at home there as much as Kathryn and Carley seem to be as they walk the gravel road.
The farmhouse reminds me of a heavenly story....My grandmother lived at the top of a mountain with an amazing vista view via her kitchen window. One Christmas after baking her applebutter cookies and staying up into the wee hours of the morning to finish these long awaited gifts for friends and family, she told her sisters that would be the last year, and it was come January. I try to imagine what happened - was it a still small voice, did she get a glimpse in a dream?, did she see Jesus himself, perhaps one of her beloveds outstretch a hand? Regardless, I know it is sweeter than any applebutter forged in a copper kettle during the summer, where the children get to ride the red pony and the women sweat as they prepare what would later be spread inside the sweet, simple sugar cookie, baked and placed in bread bags that had been saved the whole year by my grandmother who baked alone. All these years later, I try to more clearly imagine her companion and seamless journey.
Thank you so much for sharing this meaningful memory, and having the courage to imagine out loud what your grandmother may have experienced - her companion and their journey together. So lovely.
Chris, I really enjoyed this installment of your beautiful writings. I was completely struck by the following:
One of the things I hope to do out here is to spend less time doing breath-work, and more time breathing. To forget about finding my life’s work, and remembering to live.
I thought these words were poetry and the heart of a great song. It hit home with me because daily I remind myself to breathe and without always being present. Live life and love.
Yes. How strange that we have to remind ourselves to breathe ... and without always being present. I'm not sure what this means, but your words have me wanting to be with each breath. Fully with every inhale. Every exhale.
I wonder if the gate of heaven is everywhere precisely because it is nowhere -- not a physical place at all, though some physical places make it easier or harder for us to access that gate. Then I wonder, what exactly is the gate? And what keeps us from seeing it clearly, approaching it steadily, opening it with longing and curiosity, and then walking through with equal measure of wonder and relief? I wonder. A lot. Thanks Chris.
I wonder most about boundaries and whether they are real or imagined. Where is the line between the physical and the non-physical? And what if the gate of heaven is physical, after all. And what if we see it, even see it clearly, but only occasionally recognize it? I think-hope this is true.
The Kingdom is at hand, after all.
That doesn't answer your question, nor do I think I can. But I think recognition is a grace, and there is no program. None. Sometimes I wonder if allowing ourselves to be truly still, while not guaranteeing this grace, might set the conditions for it's arrival. Sorta like preparing a fine meal and setting a beautiful table and unlocking the doors of your home in hope that your beloved guest might stop by and share an intimate meal.
Chris, Like Paul, the more time breathing really resonated. I snagged a photo of it so that when I am scrolling the camera roll, it causes me to pause - yet again. Hope you are at home there as much as Kathryn and Carley seem to be as they walk the gravel road.
The farmhouse reminds me of a heavenly story....My grandmother lived at the top of a mountain with an amazing vista view via her kitchen window. One Christmas after baking her applebutter cookies and staying up into the wee hours of the morning to finish these long awaited gifts for friends and family, she told her sisters that would be the last year, and it was come January. I try to imagine what happened - was it a still small voice, did she get a glimpse in a dream?, did she see Jesus himself, perhaps one of her beloveds outstretch a hand? Regardless, I know it is sweeter than any applebutter forged in a copper kettle during the summer, where the children get to ride the red pony and the women sweat as they prepare what would later be spread inside the sweet, simple sugar cookie, baked and placed in bread bags that had been saved the whole year by my grandmother who baked alone. All these years later, I try to more clearly imagine her companion and seamless journey.
Theresa,
Thank you so much for sharing this meaningful memory, and having the courage to imagine out loud what your grandmother may have experienced - her companion and their journey together. So lovely.
Gratefully,
C
Chris, I really enjoyed this installment of your beautiful writings. I was completely struck by the following:
One of the things I hope to do out here is to spend less time doing breath-work, and more time breathing. To forget about finding my life’s work, and remembering to live.
I thought these words were poetry and the heart of a great song. It hit home with me because daily I remind myself to breathe and without always being present. Live life and love.
Great stuff Chris!
Paul
Thank you, Paul.
Yes. How strange that we have to remind ourselves to breathe ... and without always being present. I'm not sure what this means, but your words have me wanting to be with each breath. Fully with every inhale. Every exhale.
Thank you, Friend.
C
I wonder if the gate of heaven is everywhere precisely because it is nowhere -- not a physical place at all, though some physical places make it easier or harder for us to access that gate. Then I wonder, what exactly is the gate? And what keeps us from seeing it clearly, approaching it steadily, opening it with longing and curiosity, and then walking through with equal measure of wonder and relief? I wonder. A lot. Thanks Chris.
Andy, Thank you. I also wonder. A lot.
I wonder most about boundaries and whether they are real or imagined. Where is the line between the physical and the non-physical? And what if the gate of heaven is physical, after all. And what if we see it, even see it clearly, but only occasionally recognize it? I think-hope this is true.
The Kingdom is at hand, after all.
That doesn't answer your question, nor do I think I can. But I think recognition is a grace, and there is no program. None. Sometimes I wonder if allowing ourselves to be truly still, while not guaranteeing this grace, might set the conditions for it's arrival. Sorta like preparing a fine meal and setting a beautiful table and unlocking the doors of your home in hope that your beloved guest might stop by and share an intimate meal.
Nice, Chris!
Thank you, brother.