When I was studying Japanese tea ceremony, it always struck me how important it was both for the host and the guest to prepare themselves for the experience. A guest might follow a path through a simple gate into a garden. Along the way, she might notice certain things blooming or see a delightful pattern in the way a rock is placed. She might take a drink at a place where water is softly dripping into a bamboo scoop. Meanwhile, the host has prepared the interior space of the tea house with a sprig of whatever is in season, placed in a simple vase in the tokonoma (the alcove), where there is a carefully chosen scroll of calligraphy which, if you can read it, might carry a message for the day. Depending on the time of year, there might be a hint of incense burning on the coals below the floor level or a slight scent from the blossom and the sound of water boiling in a pot.

Now it is time for the guest to enter. The door into the tea house is quite small. In order to enter in the old days, so the story goes, the Samurai warrior had to relinquish his sword in order to bow low enough to enter the sacred space. Today, the guest bows, symbolically leaving her weapons outside.

Two questions arise for me today in relation to Quaker worship. First, how do we prepare ourselves and our spaces for the experience of worship? In our Meeting, the members of Ministry and Counsel rotate responsibility for “hosting” meeting. This typically means arriving early, arranging the chairs if needed, and settling into worship as a way of preparing the space. Some hosts like to stay in the entryway to greet Friends as they arrive, while others settle inside the Meeting room. Unlike the Japanese tea room, no special care is taken to create an external atmosphere. We used to have a few prints hanging in the Meeting room. Years ago when the room was repainted some Friends felt the artwork should not be rehung, while others treasured the stories of each one and wanted them kept. The conflict was solved by hanging one print on one wall. Those who found it a distraction could sit facing the blank wall.

The second question is how do we enter our places of worship? Do we leave our “swords”—our pens, our words, our anger—outside the Meeting space when we enter? Do we enter mindfully with hearts open, vulnerable, and expectant?  Are we prepared to be surprised? Transformed? Do we mentally greet others in the room as we take our place?  In Four Doors to Meeting for Worship, Bill Taber writes:

“Entering the door of the meting room can be a very special experience of going   through the Door Inward; it can be a “body prayer” as we continue to let body, mind, and spiritual senses seek attunement with the Stream in this holy place as we move toward a seat.”

As Taber also points, out, preparing for worship can take place at any time, not just at the door or in the Meeting room.  Mindfulness of our inner state, of our environment, of others in our lives, can be a daily spiritual practice.  That was the most important lesson I learned from my tea ceremony teachers.  I think they knew that when I returned to this country I probably wouldn’t be able to continue the outer rituals, but they helped me see beneath the forms to the principle of mindfulness, and that has stayed with me as I became a convinced Quaker.

In our time of introductions and afterthoughts following meeting for worship yesterday, several people spoke their concerns about the ban on immigration. I didn’t speak, but later a Friend came up and said, “You seem to be in pain.” I guess my face showed what I was feeling. He offered the opportunity to express some of that feeling in words. This is an example of what several seasoned Friends have offered me over the years: the opening to go to a deeper level, to voice what is stirring in my heart.

This morning I am musing about the gift of inviting others to share more deeply, whether in clearness committees or ordinary conversation. In a meeting yesterday a Friend told of an experience in a clearness committee where he felt the rising of a difficult question but was hesitant to ask it. After several minutes of suppressing it, he finally could stand it no longer and put the question into words. It turned out to be a pivotal moment for all, allowing the focus person especially to look at an aspect of the situation that had not been acknowledged.

The movement of the Spirit in this way is not surprising in a setting where three or four are gathered to listen deeply. How about in everyday conversations with people? In the past few weeks there have been many opportunities with friends and even strangers to share our feelings of dismay, fear and outrage. I have tried to maintain a hopeful stance, taking the cue from President Obama in his farewell speech. “We the people” is not an abstraction. The need for collective action is bringing all sorts of people together to march, to contact their legislators, to pray.

But can we go deeper? How can I help to create spaces for people to search their own hearts and find the source of strength that will sustain them? Asking the right questions rooted in compassion and love is a gift. We don’t do it on our own. It is at the heart of being a spiritual nurturer, an elder, a Friend. Our world needs us to be there holding the spaces, inviting people to go beyond the anger and fear and into action guided by love.

One of the many Biblical metaphors for the Divine Presence/God is that of a rock. Many of these images, especially in the Psalms, relate to a place of refuge, a shelter from the storm. For example:

“Hear my cry, O God; Give heed to my prayer. From the end of the earth I call to You when my heart is faint; Lead me to the rock that is higher than I. For You have been a refuge for me, A tower of strength against the enemy. “ (Psalm 61: 1-3)

“Incline Your ear to me, rescue me quickly; Be to me a rock of strength, A stronghold to save me. For You are my rock and my fortress; For Your name’s sake You will lead me and guide me.” (Psalm 31:2-3)

“Trust in the LORD forever, For in God the Lord we have an everlasting Rock” (Isaiah 26:4)

Recently I have found myself yearning for a shelter, a refuge, a place of quiet from the storm. With the constantly shifting political landscape, it is tempting to find a place to hide and wait for the storm to pass. It helps me to know that I can retreat from time to time to rest, “Be to me a rock of habitation to which I may continually come.” (Psalm 71.3), but I know I can’t stay there. I feel the need to engage with my community and work together to create healthy alternatives to the forces of greed and exploitation and injustice.

Besides the image of refuge, rocks can also represent obstacles, challenges. For example, when we take our canoe down the Upper Chena River and I am in the bow, I constantly watch for submerged rocks that could hang us up. They are not places of refuge or safety. Maneuvering around them takes some skill, experience, communication, and trust. But they are part of the river, and they make the trip interesting.

Whether a rock is a refuge or a challenge may depend in part on where I am in my journey. Do I need a challenge to make things interesting, or do I need a respite from dealing with issues in the world? And I believe God is present in both situations, guiding me and giving me what I need.

It is almost 11 a.m. and the sun has not yet risen. The thermometer registers twenty degrees below zero. How do we survive in this place? And why? Many of our friends have taken to spending the winters elsewhere, like Arizona. We’re retired, so why don’t we join them?

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the fact that our current way of life here is unsustainable. We Alaskans import something like 95 percent of our food. Last year when the food supply line was interrupted, the grocery store shelves cleared off in three days. That event should have shaken everyone, but as soon as the systems were repaired, we all sort of forgot that it had happened.

In case of a power outage, our house has backup systems that would carry us for a while. We live in a birch forest so we have the means to stay warm, and could also cook on the wood stove. Without electricity we don’t have access to our water tank, but we could melt snow in the winter and collect rainwater in the summer. We have some food put by in the freezer: salmon, kale, and berries, mostly, but it wouldn’t last long. While I’m not inclined to stockpile a survival bunker (I have seen large cans and boxes of unreal food items for sale at some stores), I wonder if we should be better prepared.

These thoughts are taking me to a depressing place. Maybe I should go back to bed and hibernate until Spring. Or perhaps I should focus on where I find hope, peace, joy, and love in this season of Advent. Yesterday in meeting for worship I had a profound sense of being part of a community. There was no vocal ministry, but a sense of peace pervaded the room. I felt gratitude and love for these people with whom I have been worshiping for almost thirty years. These are my people. I belong here. I will wait with them, expecting a birth, a birth of something new, a divine light that will shine in the darkness.

As I look out my window now I see that the sun is just barely hitting the tops of trees on the distant hill. There is reason for hope. I will put on my warmest gear and take a walk to a place where the sun can hit my face. Yes, I will survive another day.

During worship at Meeting yesterday, ministry was offered regarding the fact that many Christian churches were celebrating the first Sunday of Advent by lighting one of four candles in a wreath and talking about hope. While I didn’t grow up with the Advent tradition, that message resonated for me and took me to a place of imagining each of us in the circle with lighted candles.   A wind picks up and some of the candles are snuffed out. Other candles burn down. We need the Light, especially now in our season of darkness. Our individual candles are not enough. We need each other to help rekindle when needed, as we all draw hope and strength from the Light in the center.

I was reminded yesterday in meeting for worship of the quote, “What you focus on flourishes.” I’m not sure where it came from but it resonated for me. Where that takes me this morning is musing about the difference between multitasking and monotasking. There have been several articles lately claiming that, in opposition to the model of work where people are expected to accomplish many different things at once, humans are actually more productive—and healthy, if they focus on one thing at a time.

The Buddhists have known this for a long time, of course. Thich Nhat Hanh speaks of enjoying each moment, living in the present: “Drink your tea slowly and reverently, as if it is the axis on which the world earth revolves – slowly, evenly, without rushing toward the future.”   His words are in stark contrast to the way many people live their lives, rushing from one thing to the next. One day last week I went to three different meetings, one right after the other. At the end of the day I felt exhausted and depleted, although each meeting, taken alone, was worthwhile and should have energized me.

There seems to be a growing awareness, at least in some quarters, that mindfulness practices in schools and workplaces can help people focus and do their work more joyfully and productively, as the work emanates from a centered place within. A friend recently retired as counselor in a challenging school. During her tenure there she introduced mindfulness practices to children in this school, many of whom come from troubled family lives. My friend reported that allowing children the space and time to center quietly at several points during the day made a huge difference in how they functioned in their classrooms. She even heard from a couple of parents that the children were practicing these centering moments at home. They would say something like, “My amygdala is over stimulated right now. I need to take a few moments to center.” Pretty amazing.

For me, the practice of centering down comes through Quakerism and is a spiritual practice, but I am heartened to know that it can be practiced anywhere, regardless of one’s religious beliefs or lack thereof.

I spent the weekend at a School of the Spirit Board retreat. The theme was “Longing.Journeying.Together.” This morning as I continue to enjoy the leftovers from the spiritual feast, my thoughts turn to the question of what I can share from the abundance.

One thing that comes to mind is that drinking deeply from the stream of Living Water replenished my soul, and I will return to the work of climate change activism with renewed strength. I now see my role in that work more clearly. During the retreat, when we considered the question of what we long for as a Board, one participant in the retreat spoke of “creating spaces where [spiritual] longing is both normal and accompanied.” I think she was referring to the fact that our culture rarely allows us to express our deepest longings, but when we do, and more importantly, when we decide to act on them, it is good to have companions on the journey.

Perhaps our work in climate change activism is to create opportunities for people to recognize their own longing for a sustainable world—a world in which their children and grandchildren can breathe clean air, drink clean water, and eat healthy food. Would anyone disagree with this? They may disagree with various strategies for reversing our current course to destruction, but can people of faith join together for helping to bring about the Blessed Community on earth?

In a recent essay, Bill McKibben says that the question he gets asked the most when he goes about talking about climate change is “What can I do?” He says that the problem is with the word “I.” The right question is “What can WE do to make a difference?” “Because if individual action can’t alter the momentum of global warming, movements may still do the trick. Movements are how people organize themselves to gain power—enough power, in this case, to perhaps overcome the financial might of the fossil fuel industry. Movements are what can put a price on carbon, force politicians to keep fossil fuel in the ground, demand subsidies so that solar panels go up on almost every roof, not just yours. Movements are what take 5 or 10 percent of people and make them decisive—because in a world where apathy rules, five or ten percent is an enormous number.”

“The most important thing an individual can do is not be an individual. Join together—that’s why we have movements like 350.org or Green for All, like BlackLivesMatter or Occupy.” * Or EQAT or GreenFaith or any number of local coalitions.

I’m actually a little surprised at where this musing has taken me today. It seems that I have become an activist. But I know in my soul that I am also a contemplative. It was interesting to hear from one of the brothers at the Norbertine Abbey where our retreat was held that the Norbertines have always maintained an active role in the world, along with their daily prayers and spiritual disciplines. I long to maintain both as well. I pray that my actions will be Spirit-led, and that I allow space in my daily routine for listening to that Spirit.

*http://www.ecowatch.com/bill-mckibben-climate-change-2041759425.html

Yesterday was World Quaker Day, celebrating the fact that Friends would be worshiping in each time zone throughout the day, starting with New Zealand, and ending with Hawai’i. The theme for this year was “Inspired by Faith—Witnessing Together in the World.” It was indeed inspiring to see pictures of Friends in many places and to realize the amazing diversity in the worldwide body. However, it raised the question: Given the remarkable diversity among Friends worldwide, not only in the way we look, but in the way we speak and in the ways in which we worship, how do we witness together in the world?

While I recognize that many of the Quakers worldwide were originally brought into the fold by missionary effort, I am aware that many Friends in the U.S. today would rather support programs aiming toward creating peace or building water filters in other places in the world than support those explicitly trying to proselytize. So might “witnessing” include taking action to make the world a better place?

My first encounter with the word “witnessing” was in my Baptist childhood, when I heard missionaries from faraway places speak of saving people for Christ. We were told that we needed to “witness for Christ” everywhere. I came to equate the word with actively trying to “save” people. As an adult I came to reject that concept, and neatly tucked the word away in a box somewhere in my mind. Today I am taking it out and re-examining the word to see what it might mean for me now.

According to my dictionary, the word “witness” derives from Old English “wit,” meaning knowledge. As a verb, the word means “to have personal knowledge of.” To bear witness, then, means to speak from personal experience, which strikes me as an essential quality of vocal ministry in our Quaker meetings today. Our testimonies are a form of witness. In preparing for our meeting’s celebration of World Quaker Day I wanted to find a couple of songs that might be appropriate to the theme. In searching Worship in Song, I found that one of the major categories was “Witnessing to our Testimonies,” including songs about integrity and simplicity, equality, justice, peace, care for the environment, and care for one another.

“Witnessing” can also mean “being present.”   At Quaker weddings we typically sign a certificate as witnesses to the marriage.   We may be called upon in a court of law to tell what we saw or heard in a particular situation. Again, the word relates to personal knowledge or experience. Were you present? What did you see? Tell your story. How often do we speak together about our experience of worship?

One video I watched in preparation for our celebration yesterday was “Friends World Committee on Consultation: Quaker Voices from Around the World.” I was moved by hearing voices in English and Spanish telling of personal experiences in worship. One of those voices was a young woman from Ecuador talking about how much she enjoyed the singing and praise that was included in worship with Friends in Ecuador, but she also had experienced a more silent form of worship in the U.S. and learned that we can “listen to God” in that way.

In today’s musings, I am also recalling a story George Lakey told at FGC Gathering a few years ago. While I can’t remember the details, it seems he encountered a couple engaged in a dispute that was becoming violent. He let them know that he was watching them, witnessing. He didn’t try to stop them but kept reminding them that he was watching. His presence helped to ramp down the violence. How often do we witness acts of injustice in our communities and remain silent?

To witness, then, can mean many different things, but essentially what it means to me today is to allow the Spirit underlying the Quaker testimonies to be visible to others through my actions as well as my words. And I think we CAN do this together.

I look out my window this morning and see naked trees, where just a couple of days ago there was a brilliant array of yellow leaves, and before that a lush forest of green. I realize with some sense of dread, that this is how it will be for the next eight months. Naked trees, hunkering down to their roots where their sugars are stored for the winter. Hunkering down. I’m not ready. I’m never ready.

In worship yesterday I asked myself the question, “Where is the blessing in this season?” As I settled with this question, I recalled a haiku by a 17^th century Japanese poet, Mizuta Masahide: “Barn’s burnt down. Now I can see the moon.” I once bought a card with this saying on it (it was intended as a sympathy card), but I’ve never found the right occasion to send it to anyone. It comes to me now that being able to recognize the blessing that comes from tragedy, or from a season of despair, may not come until later. It doesn’t help someone who is grieving to say, “Hey, consider the blessings that may come from this loss.”   But I met with a friend last week who went through a messy divorce years ago and is now in a much happier and healthier relationship with someone new. She says having her first husband leave her was devastating at the time but now she sees it as the best thing that ever happened to her.

Okay, so now I’m looking out my window again. I feel the warmth of the sun on my face. Wait—the sun isn’t being shaded by the trees. This feels like a blessing. The sun is also shining more directly on the solar panels we installed on the roof last summer. That’s a blessing, too. I look more closely at the birch trees as they reflect back the light of the sun, unencumbered by leaves. Beautiful. Blessing.

Maybe I need to be more like the birch trees, slowing down, sinking down to the tap root, reflecting the measure of Light I’m given today, and waiting.

My mind is filled this morning with thoughts about a lecture I will be giving tonight. Months ago a colleague invited me to give a “Professor’s Choice” lecture for members of Osher Lifelong Learning as well as the general public. I agreed, but struggled with the question of what to talk about. Should I dig out old papers, delivered at conferences long ago? Should I talk about my current social justice activism around issues of climate change? I raised this question with my spiritual nurture group and came to the idea of telling my story, or at least telling A story about my academic work. My musing about this has led me to see the threads that connect that work with my current concerns.

“Indigenous Language Revitalization” is the stated topic, and I hope to move beyond the objective, observable “facts” and get to the deeper issues, such as historical trauma that disrupted the lives of Alaska Native people in so many ways, including the loss of the ancestral languages. I also want to hold out the very real possibility that Native ways of knowing, embedded in the indigenous languages, can teach us how to survive. That’s what I believe, but is that my story to tell? We’ll see. I have a number of personal stories to share and hope to weave them into the larger narrative in a way that makes sense, at least to me. This exercise, after all, is a kind of review of how I spent some 35 years of my life.

I have never before, in a large public setting, attempted to talk somewhat extemporaneously rather than read from a script. I pray that words will come from the heart and not just the head.