Laniakea: "Immense Heaven" Is Our Home

I love this article (and the beautiful accompanying Nature video) on Laniakea -- the name given to the recently identified supercluster of galaxies in which our own Milky Way galaxy is suspended:

"This discovery clarifies the boundaries of our galactic neighborhood and establishes previously unrecognized linkages among various galaxy clusters in the local Universe. 

'We have finally established the contours that define the supercluster of galaxies we can call home,' said lead researcher R. Brent Tully, an astronomer at the University of Hawaii in Manoa. 'This is not unlike finding out for the first time that your hometown is actually part of a much larger country that borders other nations.'" 

To read the article and view the video, click here. 

Life is Like a Cup of Coffee

A simple life-wisdom story from Spiritualstories --

Seeing God

A man came up to Jesus and complained about the hiddenness of God. "Rabbi," he said, "I am an old man. During my whole life, I have always kept the commandments. Every year of my adult life, I went to Jerusalem and offered the prescribed sacrifices. Every night of my life, I have not retired to my bed without first saying my prayers. But . . . I look at the stars and sometimes the mountains -- and wait, wait for God to come so that I might see him. I have waited for years and years, but in vain. Why? Why? Mine is a great grievance, Rabbi! Why doesn't God show himself?"

Jesus smiled and responded gently: "Once upon a time there was a marble throne at the eastern gate of a great city. On this throne sat three thousand kings. All of them called upon God to appear so that they might see him, but all went to their graves with their wishes unfulfilled.

"Then, when the kings had died, a pauper, barefooted and hungry, came and sat upon that throne. 'God,' he whispered, 'the eyes of a human being cannot look directly at the sun, for they would be blinded. How, then, Omnipotent, can they look directly at you? Have pity, Lord, temper your strength, turn down your splendor so that I, who am poor and afflicted, may see you!'

"Then -- listen, old man -- God became a piece of bread, a cup of cool water, a warm tunic, a hut, and in front of the hut, a woman nursing an infant."

"Thank you, Lord," the pauper whispered. "You humbled yourself for my sake. You became bread, water, a warm tunic and a wife and a child in order that I might see you. And I did see you. I bow down and worship your beloved many-faced face."

--From The Last Temptation of Jesus (1960), by Nikos Kazantzakis

My Mother's Parting Note

Mom in her 70s, with my brother Mike

Happy Mother's Day to all moms. And tears and tender thoughts to all those who are missing their mothers, to all those who do not feel mothered, and to all mothers who are missing their children.

My (adoptive) mother died in 2001. In her "important papers" box, my brother, sister and I discovered a note labeled "Death: Open in Case of." I am so grateful she wrote it. Whenever I read it, I feel her presence in my heart. Here is a short excerpt:



To my children:

...One is born and one must die. The in-between is probably the most important.

You were my chosen -- the "why" is much too difficult for anyone to explain. Reasons are many and complex, more than the human mind can fathom. I loved you from day one and will love you even after death. Love each other, talk to each other, and -- most important -- pray with and for each other. Pray for understanding, a needed "item." You will need it. If you have difficulty talking, try writing... 

Our growing years were valuable. I learned much. You will also if you pray for understanding... 

Be sad if you must ... but only for a short while. Remember Mom was lonesome but never lonely, therefore not unhappy. I enjoyed you very much... 

Don't forget you are much loved.

Your Mom

May Prayer

May I be like the almond tree
That, whether there be cars -- 
Or no cars -- on the winding roads,
Wars or no wars,
Whether there be music in the house or not,
Or famine, or concentration camps,
Or the systematic drowning of billions
In tsunamis of perpetual distraction -- 
Still brings forth her blossoms in silence.

~~Andrew Harvey, inspired by Thomas Merton

Blog Hop

Jae Erwin, author of Stillness Dancing (and other upcoming spiritually adventurous novels) invited me to blog hop. As she is also a drummer, I decided to move to the beat and invite other artists / writers / philosophizers to this dance. (I'm picturing the Soul Train line, with everyone getting their turn to boogie). Thus far, only one person -- cowboy-hobo-blacksmith-artist Steven Nickeson -- has taken me up on it. But anyone reading this is welcome to bop, hop, pop on in (and I'll add you to the little list below.)  Update: A cranky muse (Elizabeth Honer) and a ranthropologist (Shasta Gaughen) have also jumped in!

Blog Hop Rules:

Answer the four questions below, link back to the person who invited you, and link to the person or people you invite to continue this hop.

--Jae Erwin's blog-hop post.  And her website.

--Steven Nickeson's website

--Elizabeth Honer's blog-hop post and website

--Shasta Gaughen's website

1. What am I working on? 

All the Lurking Mothers of God, a spiritual memoir which weaves narrative, reflection, myth, history, lament, reverie, comedy, and apologia in a way that tells a common human story through a particular time, space, and heart. It is a kind of coming-of-age tale, complete with episodic misadventures -- but also, a "conversion" story. I hesitate to use the word "conversion" -- almost chose "metanoia" because somehow that sounds more . . . respectable. (It's got a bit more academic cachet, to be sure.) I recognize that "conversion" raises red flags with many folks because it seems to hint at proselytization -- which is not my intention at all. But it is a kind of "prodigal daughter" journey: the story of being raised in a particular spiritual tradition (in my case, Catholic), arriving at experiential and logical crossroads as a teenager that had me dismissing and rejecting all institutional religion -- and "leaving home" -- only to find myself, in adulthood, strangely and stumblingly returning to my spiritual roots, albeit as somewhat of a heretic, a liminal Christian, embarrassed, at least initially, by the fact that an existential crisis beckoned me back to a church with such a horrific past (and present). My intention is to reveal some particulars on how that happened, and to suss out some of the cognitive and spiritual dissonance -- and plain old funky weirdness -- this journey entailed.

It is taking me a long time to finish it. I am a slow worker who suffers from "editoritis" -- the tendency to edit as I write (and an unfortunate form of perfectionism), brought on in part because I have worked for nearly twenty years as a writer and editor for an educational publisher. I also go back and forth on: should I just turn it into autobiographical fiction? Or continue with it as an out-an-out memoir? Perhaps a biomythography? (Audre Lorde's term) -- or an autohagiography? (Rob Brezsny's term).

At any rate, here is a blogified excerpt from my work so far: "The Dreaded Visitation of the Blessed Blob."

2. How does my work differ from others of its genre?

Well -- I'm thinking that my genre is probably what is being called "creative nonfiction" these days -- which itself can entail so many different approaches. (I was just reading about how Laura Esquivel's Like Water for Chocolate is simultaneously a memoir, a novel, and a cookbook. I'm diggin' the proliferation of hybrid forms).

There are not a lot of stories about growing up black/biracial, adopted, and Catholic -- and living in a multicolored family in a largely segregated time and place. One of the threads of the story is my discovery of the identities of my birth parents; another thread explores the tragicomic vagaries of sex education in a progressive Catholic school;  at another turn I experiment with paganism. I think the clashes and intersections of race, faith, and social class make it unique.

3. Why do I write what I write?

My writing stems from the need to explore, explain, and clarify things for myself -- and the yearning to remember or capture what might be forgotten, ignored, or dismissed. I have kept a diary or journal since I was about ten years old. It began as a desire to keep track of the details of my days (see "Thirteen Moments from my Thirteenth Year" as an example). As I grew older, I found that if I was troubled or confused about something, writing out my thoughts helped me to vent, emote, and demystify internal or external struggles. Writing is my preferred medium of thought and communication -- and it can also serve as therapy.

I so get what Elizabeth Andrew says in her book Writing the Sacred Journey: "For some of us, the wiring of our brains is such that only the written word can bring clarity."

It was not until my later teens that I began making more serious efforts at writing fictional stories and poems. (I eventually went on to earn an MFA degree in creative writing, with a concentration in poetry. My embarrassing MFA thesis now gathers dust at the San Diego State University library). But now, at midlife, writing is again more a way for me to explore, to capture insights, and to bear witness. I also write with the desire to connect, to reveal what is significant, to share awe, and pain, and joy -- basically, to do what many writers I love have done for me.  My preference, with both reading and writing, is for nonfiction (essays, reflections, autobiographies), but I still have an appreciation for good story structure (a gift of fiction) and for lyrical concision (a gift of poetry).

4. How does my writing process work?

Well. In my editing-writing work life, deadlines and paychecks help me to stick to a relatively consistent schedule. In my blogging & memoir-writing life, eh, well, I'm not so good at self-imposed deadlines. (I'm two days late with this blog hop thing!) But I keep trying.

My process is basically: Doodle, coffee, doodle, daydream, procrastinate, snack, sigh, take a walk outside with bouncy music, read, give up, nap, scoop the cat poop, meditate, do laundry, watch Cosmos . . . then, some strange internal force might emerge out of the depths, and a semi-fevered spate of thinking/yearning/writing starts and might continue for one hour or several. If I'm enjoying what turns up on the page, my energy tends to renew itself, and I might go on for quite a while -- into all hours of the night and early morning ("jazz musician hours", a friend tells me). Then: collapse into sleep. Get up bleary-eyed. Do other things that need to be done. Possibly do no writing at all for a while (a day, a week . . . it depends). Rinse. repeat. It is somewhat . . . bipolar, yes. I wish I could combine the consistency of the outer-imposed deadline with whatever that force is in me that pushes me to write. But I've got jazz-musician on my father's side. So be it, so bop it.

A whop bop-a-blog-hop, a whop-bam boom!

Wanna Blog Hop?

Do you write and have a blog?

Are you interested in widening your circles?

Wanna do the blog hop?

Here are the details:

You would post a blog on Monday, May 5, to answer four questions, in brief or at length, about you and your writing. You link to my post, which will appear here on Monday, April 28, and you link to other writers who will "hop their blog" the week after you (May 12). In the meantime, you find willing victims to continue the hop.

I'll be blog hopping on from my British writer friend, Jae Erwin, author of the novel Stillness Dancing. Here's her blog hop post.

If you want to participate, just let me know & we'll take it from there.