Kirstin Paisley
Rob was a soft-spoken, gentle soul, with the driest sense of humor on the planet. Easter before last, I was serving. I was wearing an alb, and carrying a torch. We were singing "My Jesus Rose." I forgot what I was wearing, and what I was holding, and clapped my hands--thus getting wax all over me.
I was slinking around, looking for an Altar Guild member to confess to, when I bumped into Rob. I asked him, "Now what should I do?" He answered me quietly and completely deadpan, save for a twinkle in his eye:
"Well, you're going to hell now."
I'm still working at the Ranch, and couldn't participate in the vigil that the community kept for him. But everyone who reported back to me told me that he was surrounded by love. People from our community took two-hour shifts, around the clock, to be with him. Jack played his harp for him. The Brothers were with him. His nieces were with him.
Last night, after he died, Ken and Jenny went to Kate and Angela's. They connected me by speaker phone, and we all read Compline for Rob. This impulse to pray--and their desire to figure out a way to include me after I sobbed on the phone that I needed people to pray with--is a piece of the love we all share. The same love that celebrated with me at our parish weekend, when I got up and told a story, completely confidently and without ever once tripping over my mouth.
I know what lifted Rob as he left us. And I know that same beam of light would be focused on any of us in a millisecond, if we needed it.
I remain in awe.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Safe passage
Kirstin Paisley
As I write this, members of our community are keeping vigil with Rob. He is held in the same circle of love that I was so touched by last weekend. The hands that squeezed mine in celebration, are easing his journey to the illimitable Love who embraces us all.
I’m 70 miles away, reading e-mail updates from friends who have visited him at CPMC. You all say the same thing: he is receiving wonderful care, and is surrounded by love. Our community is present with him, around the clock. The Brothers are there. His nieces are with him. Jack played his harp; the same harp he played for us three days ago.
I am in awe, of love. There is an unspeakable sweetness in this. I know Rob, and I know our God; I know that he is safe, in good hands, and going from love, to Love. I’m aware of my own sadness, and we will miss him tremendously. Right now, though, he is being given a gentle, attentive passing. You are doing the “work of the people.” And doing it beautifully and well.
I want you to know, also, that Rob is being prayed for at the Bishop’s Ranch. Jack Dowling and I talked about him, and I lit a candle in the chapel. I’ll do it again, tomorrow. We are with you, and with Rob.
My prayers and my love go with you.
As I write this, members of our community are keeping vigil with Rob. He is held in the same circle of love that I was so touched by last weekend. The hands that squeezed mine in celebration, are easing his journey to the illimitable Love who embraces us all.
I’m 70 miles away, reading e-mail updates from friends who have visited him at CPMC. You all say the same thing: he is receiving wonderful care, and is surrounded by love. Our community is present with him, around the clock. The Brothers are there. His nieces are with him. Jack played his harp; the same harp he played for us three days ago.
I am in awe, of love. There is an unspeakable sweetness in this. I know Rob, and I know our God; I know that he is safe, in good hands, and going from love, to Love. I’m aware of my own sadness, and we will miss him tremendously. Right now, though, he is being given a gentle, attentive passing. You are doing the “work of the people.” And doing it beautifully and well.
I want you to know, also, that Rob is being prayed for at the Bishop’s Ranch. Jack Dowling and I talked about him, and I lit a candle in the chapel. I’ll do it again, tomorrow. We are with you, and with Rob.
My prayers and my love go with you.
The power of story
Kirstin Paisley
To this community, the Bishop's Ranch, and to God, all I can say is thank you.
Parish Weekend was a homecoming for me, in ways deeper than words. I’ve been working at the Bishop’s Ranch all summer; being part of this gathering felt like my whole family had come to see me. I got real time with people I’m particularly close to. I got closer to people I’ve respected for a long time. And I got to see for myself, how far I’ve come.
The theme of the weekend was "journeys." We did an exercise Saturday morning, using the metaphor of rocks in our shoes. I asked to be one of the storytellers that night, because the idea didn’t terrify me. I’ve struggled with speaking clearly since I was a teenager; my brain goes faster than my mouth, when I’m excited or nervous, and I almost always have to repeat myself. I knew that I could do this, and I really wanted to. I stood up, in this circle of love in the Ranch House living room, and spoke my truth in total assurance. I knew as I was speaking that I was slow enough; knew that I was loud enough. I didn’t get stuck, and I didn’t get lost. I never once tripped over my mouth. I hadn’t had any prep time, but I didn’t need it. I wasn’t trying to read the words in my head. I just, simply, spoke them.
Are you getting the idea yet, that this is huge ? Because it is. It’s the equivalent of climbing a mountain without ropes, trusting that your hands and feet will grip the rock—and then being proven right, with every fluid motion. I felt completely supported by the community. I also felt completely capable. Part of that assurance comes from being at the Ranch all summer. This is a place of unfathomable healing. The land and the people are good for the soul; joy and justice live and grow here, and I've learned how to breathe. Part of it is the intentional work I’ve done, and that some of you have helped me with. I cannot minimize the gift of this community—the power in knowing that everything offered is received, in love. Questions and critiques come later. The first gift we give one another is appreciation. I’ve witnessed this for two years, and it is palpable.
Here, then, for those of you who were not there, is my story. I had detailed the event in my own blog, and my reflections there took me to a slightly different place. This is more or less how it came in the telling. I'm still learning how to tell this story; I'm still learning how to live it. It happened a little more than two weeks ago.
The rocks I carry with me have never hurt my feet. The rocks I carry with me are liberating.
I’ve been up at the Ranch all summer, working. I’d been needing an ocean fix. Two weeks ago Friday, when I had a day off, I drove out to Goat Rock, to walk around in infinity for awhile. I needed to pray—and I often do that best when I’m moving.
There are signs up everywhere saying, “Stay out of the water.” The “safe” area is more-or-less flat; the danger zone slopes steeply toward the ocean. I was there at high tide; the water came almost to the lip. It was so socked-in that I couldn’t see very far; this was kind of like looking down at a huge, unpredictably roiling bathtub.
I walked toward the rock, slowly, barefooted over sand and gravel. The beach is fairly narrow at high tide, and bounded on the dry side by rusty, windswept cliffs. Something more than curiosity told me to go check them out. I found myself standing, my back pressed to the edge of California, feet thrust into shifting sand, face toward the water and the wind. I was thinking of plate tectonics, how the cliff I was leaning on was slowly pushing toward the ocean.
And I heard, or felt, God, saying, “Go.” Not literally, “jump into these riptides and drown,” but, “Go be in my ocean. Live with and love my people.” The voice inside me was the rock at my back. The water was all life, all possibility, all adventure, all love.
I don’t know how long I stood there, just being with all of this. I walked back slowly, watching where I was going. I noticed a rock at my feet. It was pale grey-blue, light and porous, shaped like a flat egg, barely denser than pumice. It was wet and shiny; the color caught my eye. I picked it up. It was small, flat; I would have skipped it across the water without thinking, had the ocean not been so rough. As it was, I held it for awhile, turned it over and looked at it, then tossed it back onto the ground. But… it seemed to want to come with me. I felt like, if I had the right kind of ears I could hear what it was saying. So I picked it up again, and walked on, watching the ground, trying not to walk on gravel.
The same thing happened two more times. I carried three small, flat, nearly identical rocks home in my pocket. I carry them with me now. Again, I wish I could hear better. I don’t know really what the rocks are about. But what I take from them is this: Listen. Remember. And be present.
To this community, the Bishop's Ranch, and to God, all I can say is thank you.
Parish Weekend was a homecoming for me, in ways deeper than words. I’ve been working at the Bishop’s Ranch all summer; being part of this gathering felt like my whole family had come to see me. I got real time with people I’m particularly close to. I got closer to people I’ve respected for a long time. And I got to see for myself, how far I’ve come.
The theme of the weekend was "journeys." We did an exercise Saturday morning, using the metaphor of rocks in our shoes. I asked to be one of the storytellers that night, because the idea didn’t terrify me. I’ve struggled with speaking clearly since I was a teenager; my brain goes faster than my mouth, when I’m excited or nervous, and I almost always have to repeat myself. I knew that I could do this, and I really wanted to. I stood up, in this circle of love in the Ranch House living room, and spoke my truth in total assurance. I knew as I was speaking that I was slow enough; knew that I was loud enough. I didn’t get stuck, and I didn’t get lost. I never once tripped over my mouth. I hadn’t had any prep time, but I didn’t need it. I wasn’t trying to read the words in my head. I just, simply, spoke them.
Are you getting the idea yet, that this is huge ? Because it is. It’s the equivalent of climbing a mountain without ropes, trusting that your hands and feet will grip the rock—and then being proven right, with every fluid motion. I felt completely supported by the community. I also felt completely capable. Part of that assurance comes from being at the Ranch all summer. This is a place of unfathomable healing. The land and the people are good for the soul; joy and justice live and grow here, and I've learned how to breathe. Part of it is the intentional work I’ve done, and that some of you have helped me with. I cannot minimize the gift of this community—the power in knowing that everything offered is received, in love. Questions and critiques come later. The first gift we give one another is appreciation. I’ve witnessed this for two years, and it is palpable.
Here, then, for those of you who were not there, is my story. I had detailed the event in my own blog, and my reflections there took me to a slightly different place. This is more or less how it came in the telling. I'm still learning how to tell this story; I'm still learning how to live it. It happened a little more than two weeks ago.
The rocks I carry with me have never hurt my feet. The rocks I carry with me are liberating.
I’ve been up at the Ranch all summer, working. I’d been needing an ocean fix. Two weeks ago Friday, when I had a day off, I drove out to Goat Rock, to walk around in infinity for awhile. I needed to pray—and I often do that best when I’m moving.
There are signs up everywhere saying, “Stay out of the water.” The “safe” area is more-or-less flat; the danger zone slopes steeply toward the ocean. I was there at high tide; the water came almost to the lip. It was so socked-in that I couldn’t see very far; this was kind of like looking down at a huge, unpredictably roiling bathtub.
I walked toward the rock, slowly, barefooted over sand and gravel. The beach is fairly narrow at high tide, and bounded on the dry side by rusty, windswept cliffs. Something more than curiosity told me to go check them out. I found myself standing, my back pressed to the edge of California, feet thrust into shifting sand, face toward the water and the wind. I was thinking of plate tectonics, how the cliff I was leaning on was slowly pushing toward the ocean.
And I heard, or felt, God, saying, “Go.” Not literally, “jump into these riptides and drown,” but, “Go be in my ocean. Live with and love my people.” The voice inside me was the rock at my back. The water was all life, all possibility, all adventure, all love.
I don’t know how long I stood there, just being with all of this. I walked back slowly, watching where I was going. I noticed a rock at my feet. It was pale grey-blue, light and porous, shaped like a flat egg, barely denser than pumice. It was wet and shiny; the color caught my eye. I picked it up. It was small, flat; I would have skipped it across the water without thinking, had the ocean not been so rough. As it was, I held it for awhile, turned it over and looked at it, then tossed it back onto the ground. But… it seemed to want to come with me. I felt like, if I had the right kind of ears I could hear what it was saying. So I picked it up again, and walked on, watching the ground, trying not to walk on gravel.
The same thing happened two more times. I carried three small, flat, nearly identical rocks home in my pocket. I carry them with me now. Again, I wish I could hear better. I don’t know really what the rocks are about. But what I take from them is this: Listen. Remember. And be present.
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