Jesus came to a village, and a woman named Martha welcomed him into her house. She had a sister called Mary, who sat down at the Lord’s feet and listened to him speaking. Now Martha who was distracted with all the serving said, ‘Lord, do you not care that my sister is leaving me to do the serving all by myself? Please tell her to help me.’ But the Lord answered: ‘Martha, Martha,’ he said ‘you worry and fret about so many things, and yet few are needed, indeed only one. It is Mary who has chosen the better part; it is not to be taken from her.’
Luke 10
Whenever I hear today’s Gospel I always start to imagine a scenario where Martha’s upset could have been avoided and both Martha and Mary could have chosen the ‘better part.’ The text doesn’t tell us how big the gathering was. I like to think of it as small: Mary, Mary Lazarus and Jesus.
If I had invited Jesus to dinner I’d definitely make sure that I’d planned things so that I could spend as much time as possible talking to him and as little as possible worrying about the meal. I imagine that time with Jesus, away from the crowds and demands was perhaps quite rare. I would certainly want to make the most of it.
So here’s my plan and menu:
Tagine Flatbread (made early in the morning) Salad Olives
Fresh fruit Dates Honey cake (made the day before)
The only thing I would need to keep an eye on would be the tagine. It would be bubbling away while I welcomed Jesus. When there was a natural break in the conversation I would serve up the food. We’d use one bowl for the main course, a side plate and one bowl for dessert. We’d recline and let the conversation unfold. We’d laugh and tell our stories.
When it was time for Jesus to go we’d make our goodbyes. I’d put the food away and leave the washing up until the morning.
As I drifted off to sleep I’d remember fragments of conversation and start looking forward to the next time.
I’d give no thought to the distinctions of action and contemplation, or contemplative religious life and apostolic religious life. All that would matter would be time spent with Jesus.
Over the past few years I have begun to discover anew the power of watching the changes in the morning light and the breath taking beauty of the sunrise. This morning I was able to take an early walk on one of my usual routes through a field. Today it struck me that no two early morning skies will ever be the same. Each day the light, colours, shapes and clouds will make a unique sky. It’s as though the sky tells a story of the unique potential of each day.
As I walked along, I turned over in my mind some thoughts that I have been gathering on the Benedictine understanding of ‘seeking God’. I have come to see the Benedictine search for God as an expression of the deepest yearnings of the human heart. Our ancestors searched for meaning in the ordinary stuff of their lives and particularly in the forces of nature. From poetic fragments, artwork and monuments, we know that the sun has always been a source of fascination. I remembered being very moved as an 11 yr old when I began to have lessons in Classical Background Studies and we learnt about Akhenaten’s Hymn to the Sun:
You arise beauteous in the horizon of the heavens Oh living Aten who creates life. When you shine forth in the Eastern horizon you fill every land with your beauty. You are so beautiful: you are great; gleaming and high over every land. Your rays embrace the lands and all you have created; You are Re and reach out to all your creations, and hold them for your beloved Son. You are afar, but your rays touch the earth; Men see you, but know not your ways.
I knew little of the Psalms then, but now see clearly the parallels with Ps 104. I hear in these ancient texts the cries of human longing. I do believe that every human heart longs for a connection with something or someone bigger than themselves. Every human heart asks the questions: Where have I come from? What is my purpose? Where am I going? Many will never find a path that helps them explore this. Many will need someone to believe in them before they dare take a step on the traditional paths of faith. And then there are those, like myself, who haven’t needed to search out a path as it has all been laid out before them, those first steps taken on their behalf by their parents.
Just as I was nearing home I found myself trying to remember the words of ‘I watch the sunrise’. I must have sung this 100s of times in school. It’s a simple a text and one which I memorised quickly as a child. There is something about the narrative shape that is in itself comforting:
I watch the sunrise lighting the sky, Casting its shadows near. And on this morning bright though it be, I feel those shadows near me.
But you are always close to me, Following all my ways. May I be always close to you Following all your ways, Lord.
I watch the sunlight shine through the clouds, Warming the earth below. And at the mid-day, life seems to say: I feel your brightness near me.
For you are always close to me, Following all my ways. May I be always close to you Following all your ways, Lord.
I watch the sunset fading away, Lighting the clouds with sleep. And as the evening closes its eyes, I feel your presence near me.
For you are always close to me, Following all my ways. May I be always close to you Following all your ways, Lord.
I watch the moonlight guarding the night, Waiting till morning comes. The air is silent, earth is at rest Only your peace is near me.
Yes, you are always close to me, Following all my ways. May I be always close to you Following all your ways, Lord.
I love the simple progression in the last line of every verse: shadows, brightness, presence, peace. My spiritual path might have led me to books, people and places that appear a good deal more sophisticated than this simple hymn, but I see my spiritual experience very clearly here. There’s a progression in the chorus too: but you are always, for your are always, yes, you are always. This progression is not unlike the dynamic of a psalm of lament.
Today is the 20th anniversary of my Solemn Profession and over the years there has certainly been ‘shadows, brightness, presence, peace.’ As I reflect on my experience since Solemn Profession there are verses from Lamentations which come so quickly to mind:
The favours of the Lord are not all past, His kindness is not all exhausted; every morning they are renewed; great is his faithfulness.
Lamentations 3:22-23
That promise of favours and kindness renewed each morning was writ large in the sky for me this morning. Deo gratias.
I have returned many times to Philip Sheldrake’s book Spaces for the Sacred. It’s a fairly challenging read for me on a philosophical level. He explores the profound effect that places and landscapes can have on us and how they shape us as human beings. Of special interest to me is his chapter The Practice of Place: Monasteries as Utopias. In this chapter he looks at the desert origins of monasticism and how the physical and psychological adaptation needed to survive there laid the foundations for a theology of monastic living.
The desert in early monastic texts is both a paradise, where people live in harmony with wild animals, and at the same time a place of trial where ascetics encounter inner and outer demons.
In a strange way, to depart from the noise of the city to the great silences of rock and sand made space for the chattering voices of inner conflict to surface and be confronted.
And this experience of inner and outer conflict has held true for every monastic through the ages. Entering a monastery today you are unlikely to experience any of the privations of the physical desert, though some adjustment to the environment is needed. I think it’s fair to say that we Benedictines cultivate a rather moderate environment in our monasteries. Largely we don’t set out to make things more difficult than they need to be.
What is particular about the monastic environment is that it is intentional. Everything that happens within the monastery walls is for one purpose only: to seek God. The monastic enters a new physical world in order to encounter the kingdom of God.
Monasticism is concerned with changing places, literally and metaphorically. At the heart of Christian spirituality is an invitation to enter a new world, the Kingdom of God. We are drawn even now to become citizens of a place of the imagination, defined by the ‘place’ of Jesus, that reshapes our identities. From its origins, Christian monasticism has expressed this proleptic vision of the Kingdom in an intensive way. Its prophetic power is that it is a socially eccentric place where, paradoxically, the imaginative world of the kingdom is lived out in radical terms.
The chapter goes on to explore the idea that life in a monastery is life that is lived ‘as if’ the Kingdom were already a reality. The thinking is that if you live ‘as if’ then it may become a reality. The structure of the day, the physical space of the monastery, the principles of the Rule of St Benedict all contribute to living ‘as if.’ Of course, the inhabitants of monasteries are very human and we don’t float around feeling as if we are in paradise or a utopia. But what we do have is a very specific set of tools that can at help us to inch towards a sense of the Kingdom.
You might be reading this and longing for all that you imagine a monastery can provide in terms of space and silence, but feel that this is so far from your own reality. I’d like to suggest that in the events of everyday life there are some simple ways of sensing the sacred, even in the busiest of environments. I have personally been helped a great deal by the teaching and writing of Sr Meg Funk osb. She has taken the wisdom of the Desert Tradition and made it accessible for everyone. In a workshop for monastics she spoke about ‘bringing enclosure with you’ any time you leave the monastery. Enclosure, she explained, is not just the physical boundaries of the monastery, but also includes the ‘guarding of the heart.’ She suggested that if you guard your heart when you are on a journey, this opens you up to the divine. I have interpreted this as being open to the glimpses of God in the busiest and noisiest environments.
I lived in London before I entered the monastery and I feel at home in the busy and the bustle. There is something strangely reassuring for me knowing that a whole crowd of people are heading in a particular direction and I just need to keep up and follow. People often ask me if I find the noise of London difficult after the peace of the monastery. In truth, I don’t really. I have learnt to try to be open to the sacred wherever I am.
A very obvious glimpse of the Kingdom for me is the piano at St Pancras Station. It always draws me. I sense the sacred in the group that gathers and the connection that is made between the pianist and the group. The playing is always without music and this adds to the wonder for me. It’s extraordinary how the human brain can learn an instrument and play a piece from memory. Very often the group that gathers is silent, with some taking pictures and videoes. Together we are caught up in the moment. The Kingdom is close. In that moment we are united. As I head towards the underground I take some of that sense of the sacred with me. I might be standing on a platform four people deep, but I try to hold onto that sense of the Kingdom.
I have a sense that we can make space for the Kingdom wherever we are. All it needs is a little intention. There is a line from a sonnet entitled ‘St Benedict’, by poet and priest, Malcolm Guite, which captures this for me beautifully: to clear and keep for Love a sacred space that we might be beginners in God’s grace.
The whole sonnet is a beautiful weaving together of the key themes of Benedictine spirituality and reminds me that cultivating a space for love is a daily task, wherever I am.
St Benedict
You sought to start a simple school of prayer, A modest, gentle, moderate attempt, With nothing made too harsh or hard to bear, No treating or retreating with contempt, A little rule, a small obedience That sets aside, and tills the chosen ground, Fruitful humility, chosen innocence, A binding by which freedom might be found
You call us all to live, and see good days, Centre in Christ and enter in his peace, To seek his Way amidst our many ways, Find blessedness in blessing, peace in praise, To clear and keep for Love a sacred space That we might be beginners in God’s grace.
We are fairly close in age and what she describes is very similar to my own experience. Her post has sparked all kinds of memories for me. You’ll see that I look rather pale in my photograph. Alas, I was recovering from yet another bout of cold. The day before my First Communion I had a temperature of 102 and for some hours there was doubt as to whether I would be able to make the great day. I missed school that week and as a consequence missed the class trip to my parish church for First Confession. Arrangements were made for me to have confession just 30 mins before the big Mass. The nuns were beaming, telling me that my soul would be ‘extra clean’ for Jesus. And at that moment, the full and awesome nature of what I was about experience hit me. Jesus was going to be so close he could see the cleanliness of my soul. I calculated that I was unlikely to cross paths with my brother before Mass started, so I’d nicely avoid an ‘occasion of sin’ there, that left only the Mass itself. We’d all been so primed to be on our very best behaviour, so there was unlikely to be any temptation there.
I have to confess to feeling a little over-awed as the Mass started. Luckily, the general excitement of seeing everyone so dressed up took away a little of my fear. During Mass I had more than one glance down at my white patent leather shoes, which were to be my pride and joy for many months to come. My dress was handed down from one of my English cousins. I secretly would have preferred a new one, but the new shoes just about made up for this.
My memories are hazy around the actual moment of receiving Communion. But what I do remember with all my heart is singing this hymn:
God is dwelling in my heart He and I are one All his joy He gives to me Through Christ his son And with Jesus in my heart What have I to fear For He is the Son of God In my heart He’s near
Christians who are baptized Have You ever realized The great mystery God dwells in You and me.
This joy God gave to You Share it, with others too Tell them, that God is love Lift their hearts above.
Imagine 35 seven year olds raising the roof singing this, smiles filling our whole faces. You can listen here to all its schmaltzy loveliness:
What I love about this hymn is its simple directness. My seven year old self meant every word of this. And, now as an adult there is not a great deal I would add.
Fast forward to 1990, to St Vincent’s school in Acton and you’ll find me teaching this to my class as they prepared for First Communion. They loved it too. I hope today that they have continued to have that strong conviction that God is dwelling in their hearts.
There is a lot to be said for the innocence of our childhood faith and I’m am grateful for the opportunity to reconnect with mine.
I have always loved this line from Luke’s account of the Birth of John the Baptist. The reader knows just who he will turn out to be. And yet, I am always caught up in a feeling of expectancy and possibilities. An earlier line in the account kindles a similar feeling of expectancy for me:
The time came for Elizabeth to have her child, and she gave birth to a son; and when her neighbours and relations heard that the Lord had shown her so great a kindness, they shared her joy.
This longed-for child is already surrounded by a network of love and joy. I’d like to think that it is from this implicit place of security that John was able to make his radical choices and follow a path that would eventually lead to martyrdom. No parent would wish this for their child, and yet, there Elizabeth and Zechariah stand as models of righteousness and faith. Their trust in the power of God’s promises was truly tested.
I have to confess to being a little unnerved by many of the portrayals of John the Baptist that I have seen on films etc. There is always an element of the ‘wild man’ about him. And the puzzling detail of surviving on locusts and wild honey can make it very hard to identify with him on a human level. (Now the leather belt and sandals are a different matter, as they are part of my everyday wardrobe!) I can however identify with the clarity of his preaching. That one word, REPENT, change of heart, is the essence of the Benedictine vow of Conversio Morum. It’s a daily call to reorientation and to making space for God. It’s through this vow that I have the opportunity to grow a little more each day. In truth, we never stop growing and never stop asking of ourselves: ‘What will this child turn out to be?’ And, thankfully, what’s not always clear to us, is always clear to God.
Over these past few months many of us have had to adjust to some very challenging routines. We’ve lost the markers and structures that subtly orient us. If attending a church service on a Sunday was something that had become a habit, then that loss is perhaps felt on more levels than you might have expected. In many ways, the absence of the opportunity to gather physically in a church has provided an important opportunity to be creative in our understanding of prayer, worship and community. That opportunity to be creative isn’t always a place of comfort. It can often appear to offer more risk than comfort.
Uncomfortable though it may be, we have a golden opportunity to look afresh at our rituals, to examine how we use a liturgical space and to try to uncover what is essential in our worship. It’s no small task. And as any monastic will know, re-assessing liturgical practice touches us at a level that can be hard to articulate. We can know viscerally that we hold something very dear but be unable to put it into words.
From my monastic context I have come to experience the Psalms as one of the essentials of my prayer. When I think back to the time when I first discovered Turvey, it was the poetry of the Psalms that captivated me. As I took my first steps on the monastic path it was the images of the Psalms that kept me company. For there in the Psalter I found a tree ‘whose leaves shall never fade’, ‘a rock of refuge’, ‘silver from the furnace’. Here was a world with image upon image, a world which included and celebrated the complete spectrum of human emotions. In those early days I had an intuitive sense that it was in this Biblical world that I might find my path.
Praying the Psalter has certainly stood the test of time. Some form of the Psalter has been part of public corporate worship from the very beginnings of Church life. Monastic tradition embraced this practice and over centuries it grew and flowered. St Bede in the 7th Century is in no doubt as to the place of the Psalms in his life. St Bede would have credited King David with the authorship of the Psalms and in a stirring sermon says this:
If we keep vigil in the church, David comes first, last and central. If in early morning we chant songs and hymns, first, last and central is David again. If we are occupied with the funeral solemnities of those who have fallen asleep, David is first, last and central.
It’s a beautifully uncomplicated vision. And strikingly exposure to the Psalms is not just the preserve of monastics:
O amazing wonder! Many who have made little progress in literature know the psalter by heart. Nor is only in cities and churches that David is famous, in the village market, in the desert, in uninhabitable lands or if girls sit at home and spin, he excites the praises of God.
There is something very compelling for me about this vision of texts learnt by heart and repeated while doing the ordinary tasks of the day. It may well be idealised, but is says something to me about integration and sacredness being woven through the day.
It looks as though it may be a very long time before it is safe for communities to come together and celebrate the Eucharist. I wonder if in that void we might be able to make a place for the Psalms? I wonder if we could allow the Psalms to be our voice? Much of the hard work of ‘what to say, and how to say it’ is done for us. We can walk a path that has already been smoothed out for us, where there are signposts and resting places, green pastures and bread to strengthen our hearts.
Read a Psalm a day and before long they may become ‘first, last and central.’
I often surprise people by sharing that I have taken Leviticus as my Lent book two years in a row. When I see a look of disbelief and puzzlement on people’s faces it only makes me all the more enthusiastic. The trouble is that in order to explain why it fascinates me so much I would need to give a mini lecture and would definitely need something visual to be sure of getting my points across. Understandably, nobody wants to hang around that long. The fact remains that I really do love this text.
At first sight, Leviticus reads as a complex handbook for rituals and ways of living that are at best peculiar and at worst very off-putting. But what if we took one verse as our hermeneutical key: Love thy neighbour as thyself (Leviticus 19:18). This verse comes from Ch 17-27, known as the Holiness Code. This code comes at the end of Leviticus and provides a lens through which to view the preceding chapters.
The endless details of the sacrificial system, the food laws and purity laws all have one goal and that is unity and LOVE. Leviticus is edited and shaped into its final form during the period of the Exile. This was a period of soul searching and dislocation for the Israelites. Faced with the feeling of confusion as to what the covenantal promises could possibly mean now, the Priestly circle of writers outline a code that is intended to safeguard love and restore hope. The Israelites are in a relationship crisis.
The writers are of the mind that worship is key for Israelites in their longing to restore right relationship with God. Their worship is to have order, shape and form and these are the hallmarks of holiness. The Hebrew word they use for holiness is kadosh, a word that means set apart. Writ through every aspect of their lives is need to create boundaries and to ‘set things apart’. The Hebrew thinking is that the desire and ability to do this mirrors the work of God in Genesis who ‘divides light from darkness’.
Oratory at Turvey Abbey
Probably part of my fascination with Leviticus comes from my years of learning the ropes of the monastic path. Monastic life of its nature places a very high value on order, shape and form. I think it would be fair to describe it as a life ‘set apart’. It is also a life that is intentional. Of course, there are ways of organising that are just sensible, but many of the ways in which we try do things have charity and love of neighbour at their heart.
Having an overall structure for every day of the year more or less ensures that we know what is coming next and what we should be doing. I’ve read a great many posts about how to survive lockdown and all of them mention a routine. Of course, I agree with this in principle, but I would like to add a caveat. Don’t be afraid to change that routine if it isn’t working. In his Rule St Benedict lays out several ways of organising life in the monastery, but wisely adds that if an arrangement is found to be unsatisfactory, the abbot ‘should arrange whatever he judges better’. (RB Ch 19)
You will probably have found by now that you need to factor in some untimetabled time. I think its important to allow some time for ‘freefall’ because it is during that time that your learn about yourself. It seems important that we allow ourselves to experience that restlessness that comes from having spent several hours in escapism. Our monastic ancestors, the Desert Fathers and Mothers, knew this restlessness well and called it acedia. Not only did they know this feeling well, they also suggested a potential cure: clean out your cell. Yes, pretty much every malady could be helped by manual work. It’s just possible that this could be a great help to us during lockdown. Any small area where we can create outer order has the potential to create a little ‘inner order’ and contentment.
I am sure that many of us are learning that having to be in the same physical space with others for long periods of time is a huge challenge. I think this might be where the idea of boundaries and ‘things set apart’ might help us. In the busyness of everyday life many boundaries have subtly been eroded. The pace of life demands for many that they take their ‘lunch break’ at the computer screen and answer emails on their commute. Perhaps this time of lockdown could help us to identify where our own boundaries have blurred and to reset them if that is possible. The idea of boundaries also has something to say to our relationships and how we share physical space with others. I am often sitting with a question myself: How do I make space for others? It is just possible that respecting the physical space of another allows them some psychological space too. These things are rather subtle and no two people are the same.
Whatever our circumstances during this lockdown, there is a deep call to make space for others, to love the neighbours we have discovered and the parts of ourselves that often lie hidden. This is Holiness.
It’s from the Danish words ‘lege godt’ that we get the brand name Lego. These two words hold a whole philosophy and it is one which formed a crucial part of my childhood. As a small child I was never happier than when I was tipping out my Lego collection and searching for the pieces for my latest project. I remember a huge sense of freedom as I created my structures- usually huge houses. There was something very satisfying about making a brickwork pattern and getting the roof tiles to fit. I am not by temperament very good at following instructions, so when Lego brought out Lego Technic it was my younger brother who had a whole new avenue to explore.
I have read quite a few online articles on how to survive lockdown, but I don’t think any of them have mentioned the importance of play for adults. There is mountains of research on child development and the importance of play for children, but I wonder how much research there is on adults and play? It is easy to think of play as something that should finish in childhood, in order to make way for the serious business of being an adult.
I have been very influenced over the past few years by the work of Brene Brown, a social worker who has spent time researching Shame and Vulnerability. At the heart of her research is her discovery that there is a group of people who are resilient to shame and these she calls ‘ the wholehearted’. What the wholehearted have in common is their capacity for play and creativity. Brene honestly admits that in the past she has had very little time for the creative. One of my favourite lines from her talks is where she tells of a friend inviting her to an art class. Brene thinks to herself; ‘You go do your A.R.T, I have a J.O.B.’ Brene reveals that she has had to eat humble pie and begin to explore her own creative avenues.
One of the things that monastic life has taught me is the importance of accessing my own creativity. My monastery is a very creative environment, with a history of all kinds of handwork. There is something about the monastic structure and environment that draws out your resourcefulness and opens up the possibility of play. We have cupboards and drawers full of all kinds of things just waiting to be played with.
If you are finding you are going a little stir-crazy being in a small space and trying to follow some kind of routine, perhaps now is time to schedule in some playtime. Brene Brown defines play as ‘time spent without purpose, where you lose track of time and engage in an activity that you don’t want to end’.
In these days of lockdown and uncertainty I am finding myself grateful for all of the resources at my disposal, material and spiritual. I’ve become very aware of the good fortune of living in community and of a monastic system of housekeeping which means that our storeroom shelves and freezers are always 3/4 full. We try to live a spirit of simplicity and can often make a little go a long way. But it always feels as if we have plenty.
Benedictine life has an innate sense of the importance of the material. In his Rule, St Benedict urges his community to ‘treat the good and tools of the monastery as the vessels of the altar.’ In just a few words St Benedict has laid part of the foundations of a way of life that has been lived, in various forms, since the Sixth Century. For St Benedict daily life in the monastery was all of a piece: the material, the implicitly spiritual and the explicitly spiritual are woven together into something very robust.
During the past month my sense of my dependence on material things has been heightened. Those bars of soap that I have been given as presents during the year are special now. They are special because they came from friends and special because now they can contribute to my health and safety.
My awareness of my dependence on the implicitly spiritual and explicitly spiritual has also increased. We haven’t celebrated the the Eucharist in our chapel since March 21st. It was a shock to the system and it has set off for me a train of thought that runs ‘what if we didn’t have…’ What if we didn’t have a chapel? What if we didn’t have the Breviary? What if we didn’t have Bibles? As I have let these thoughts run I have realised that I am so grateful for the parts of scripture that I know by heart. After 25 years of singing the liturgy there are many texts that I can sing by heart. This feels like a precious inner resource for me.
During the Easter Octave we sing this Canticle at Lauds and Vespers:
When we were baptised in Christ Jesus, we were baptised in his death.
When we were baptised we went into the tomb with him, and joined him in death.
So that as Christ was raised from the dead by the Father’s glory, we too might live a new life.
If in union with Christ we have imitated him in death, we shall also imitate his resurrection.
Our former selves have been crucified with him, to free us from the slavery of sin.
We believe that having died with Christ we shall return to life with him.
Christ, having been raised from the dead, will never die again; death has no more power over him any more.
When he died, he died once for all to sin, so his life now is life with God.
And you too must consider yourselves dead to sin, and alive for God in Christ Jesus.
Romans 6
I have always loved Romans. This text is one of the touchstones of our faith. It’s also a touchstone of monastic theology which sees the whole monastic path as a dying to self and a rising to new life in love and communion. And the goal of it all is to be ‘alive to God.’
When each day we hear of the death toll rising and hope ardently that the Corona Virus will have reached its peak, it seems all the more important to cherish life and make every choice one that says; ‘I am alive to God.’
‘Go, sit in your cell, and your cell will teach you everything’. This is a well known quotation in monastic circles. It is from the sayings of the Desert Fathers and is usually attributed to Abba Moses. Silence and solitude were essential tools for the Desert Fathers in their search for God and time spent in the cell allowed these tools to do their work.
In monastic life today the cell still holds an important place. Usually in monastic communities the cell is a private place, a place of solitude, a place where both inner and outer work can be done. Some monastic traditions place a particular emphasis on how the cell is to be furnished and how you might conduct yourself when you spend time there. It wasn’t until I had been in the monastery for about 15 years that I began to understand the importance of the cell as a place of sanctuary. I began to realise that the way in which I organised the space actually had an affect, for good or ill, on my well being. Though I wanted to be really tidy and have a place for everything, this was not really my reality.
Something changed for me one Lent when I was given a copy of Marie Kondo’s book: The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying. I read it fairly quickly and suddenly pennies started to drop. The message was quite simple: I have too much clutter! I was fascinated by her approach and her suggestion of starting to de-clutter with clothes first and finishing with keepsakes etc. Now you might be imagining that I would have very little in those two specific categories. As it happens, it’s fairly easy to accumulate things in a monastery. Marie Kondo’s method is radical in that she tells you to put every single item of clothing in a pile and to sort through it all. Her criterion as to whether or not you keep an item is whether it sparks JOY. It’s easy to parody her approach, but I find in it a deep seated monastic value.
One of the traditional goals of the monastic path is purity of heart and this entails decluttering on several levels. The whole process is intened to lead us to freedom and joy. We can begin this process by practising gratitide for what we have and the service that material objects have offered us. One of the big lessons that I have learnt from monastic life is the importance of appreciating a good thing when it comes along but trying not to hanker after it. As soon as you find yourself hankering then your heart it not free.
The decluttering process can take a very long time but asking yourself the question of whether or not something sparks JOY can begin right now!
Give Marie Kondo’s approach a try. I guarantee you will learn something about yourself.
