The Virtual Retreat: A Liturgy of Consistancy
This is not the end of the line. It is the end of the beginning of your personal liturgy formation.
Huh?
Let me take another crack at it.
This is the last day of our virtual retreat, the retreat where we examined forming personal liturgies of silence, joy, and creation. These liturgies beat back the prevailing despair of the day, so commit to them. Be consistent in your personal liturgies, and begin to incorporate them into your weekly (if not daily) routine. How? Let’s Create a plan.
Life Examined: The Personal Liturgy Plan
In your journal, planner, or on the whiteboard in your office, make a three-column mini-spreadsheet. In the first column, space these phrases evenly: “Liturgy of Silence,” “Liturgy of Joy,” and “Liturgy of Creation.”
In the middle column, directly to the right of the particular liturgy, describe how you’ll practice that ritual or rhythm. For instance, in the middle column next to “Liturgy of Silence,” you might write, “Wake one hour early on Monday mornings and contemplate, read, and pray in the silence of my house.” To the right of “Liturgy of Joy,” you might write, “Record three things that brought me pleasure or joy at the end of the night.”
In the third column, identify the times of day/week when you will practice your liturgies of creation, joy, an silence. Be specific. Name the time of day.
For one month, stick to your allotted liturgies. Don’t miss (and if you do, make it up at the first chance.) Be consistent, and at the end of the month, record whether these personal liturgies have made a difference.
***A Special Invitation***
What to hear more about how you can help bring a book on silence to life? Don’t forget to head to my latest Substack post for more.
THE BOOK OF WAKING UP —a book on addiction, attachment, and the Divine Love—launched TUESDAY so order a copy or ten at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Bookish (my favorite indie bookseller). Then, forward this post to a friend and ask them to read along.
The Virtual Retreat (Day 4): Liturgies of Creation
Rituals, routines, personal liturgies—we all have them whether we realize it or not. This week, we’re taking on a Virtual Retreat to create personal, meaningful liturgies. Don’t miss the previous posts.
In the beginning God made the heavens and the earth.
It’s a simple sentence, and when you strip away the prepositional phrase and the direct object, it becomes an even simpler soup.
God made.
God made, and made, and made, the Scriptures say, and when the world was populated by his artistry, he turned to the pièce de résistance. Humankind.
God created humankind in his own image, in the image of God he created them; male and female he created them.
In a stroke of emphatic redundancy, the Scriptures iterate and reiterate that God created men and women in his own image as if to drive some cosmic point home. And though I’m no theologian, though I’ve no background in the Jewish tradition of the depths of meaning in the creation story, my working hunch is that being created in the image of a Creator has consequences.
Creativity—it’s baked into our DNA, has been from the start. Early humans made paint from elderberries, charcoal, and wildflowers and painted buffalo (and some say aliens) on cave walls. More advanced men chiseled Roman gods and biblical characters from stone. Architects labored over buildings hundreds of years ago that still stand today. You play guitar, or piano, or scratch out poems, or knit beanies in your spare time. And what about your eight-year-old, the prodigious crayoner who creates tapestries rich with every color in the box? (Except burnt sienna; no one has a use for burnt sienna.)
We were made to create, and come to find out, creation has benefits. It’s been said that engaging in creative work has long-term benefits, including increased happiness. Creativity—it can be a hedge against the despair that’s so pervasive in this world of digital handwringing.
I have my own daily liturgy of creativity, one I’ve written about before. It begins in the morning with a cup of water and my computer. It begins here. Some days I’m more pleased with the work than others. But always, I start with nothing (a blank screen) and end up with something (words on the page). Always I create. Always, I walk away from the writing incrementally happier. And that, I suppose, is an accomplishment, an incremental increase in my happiness.
Do you have a liturgy of creation, a set time each week to sit down and make something new? If not, why not? And don’t give me that I’m not creative garbage. Each of us has a creative bone somewhere in our body. (Some knit, some work with wood, some tinker on car engines, some scrapbook, some write novels in their spare time, etcetera ad infinitum.) So, create a liturgy of creation and push back despair.
Life Examined: A Liturgy of Creation
As you did in the Silence retreat, identify one hour a week where you can create something.
Enter into the time with no expectations (and even more importantly, no cell phone), and turn to the work of your hands.
As you create, have compassion for yourself. Remember, the goal of creation is not perfection. It’s simple to bring something new to life, and in that way, to connect with the Creator who made you creative.
After your hour of creation, reflect. What did you notice? Did you get into a flow state, a state where you blocked everything else out?
Commit to practicing this weekly ritual of creation on the same day for two months. See what happens.
***A Special Invitation***
What to hear more about how you can help bring a book on silence to life? Don’t forget to head to my latest Substack post for more.
THE BOOK OF WAKING UP —a book on addiction, attachment, and the Divine Love—launched TUESDAY so order a copy or ten at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Bookish (my favorite indie bookseller). Then, forward this post to a friend and ask them to read along.
The Virtual Retreat: A Liturgy of Waking to Pleasure and Joy
Welcome to Day 3 of our virtual retreat on forming personal liturgies. If this is your first time this week, start from the beginning and work you’re way forward. We’ll be here when you come back.
As I wrote in The Book of Waking Up, we live in a dark world, one full of pain and despair. In that darkness, it’s tempting to use any old coping mechanism—booze, boobs, a penchant for purchasing—to numb ourselves to the pain. But there’s a different way, a waking way, one I outline in what some (read: I) have called my “magnum opus on the subject of addictions, attachments, and habits.”
I won’t get into the weeds of the waking way (you have to buy the book for that, and if you haven’t, come on man… what gives?), but I’ll share a waking practice, one meant to draw you into the goodness of God in the land of the living. What is that waking way? Creating an evening habit of tracking pleasure or joy.
Before we get to the nuts and bolts, though, consider my thoughts about pleasure from The Book of Waking Up:
We’re coded for pleasure. We have millions of synapses meant to fire, meant to tell the brain to release four neurotransmitters associated with pleasure: dopamine, oxytocin, serotonin, and endorphins. What do those neurotransmitters do? That’s not so important for now. Instead, just know this: each plays a part in producing the sort of WHIZZ-BANG! rush of pleasure we all know. It’s this Whizz-Bang that sets us apart from machines, that makes us human. But what why do we feel this pleasure? What’s the point of it all?
Pleasure—what is it but a sign that our creator wants us to enjoy the created things of the world?
I’ve said it once and I’ll say it till I die—pleasure is meant to draw us into the joy of the Divine Love. So, let’s take note of the pleasures and joy in our lives. Let’s celebrate them as the antidote of despair.
How?
It’s a simple practice, really. In the evening, just before bed, reach for your journal, a notepad, or last month’s electricity bill envelope. Make two columns on your paper-product of choice—a skinny column on the left and a more ample one on the right. In the left column, write the date. Close your eyes and review your day, taking note of the things that brought you pleasure or joy. Then, record a few of those things in the right column. (If you’re not smiling as you record these pleasures, you ain’t doing it right.)
In recording your joy, you’ll begin to find despair’s equal opposite. And living in this dark age as we do, it might not be terribly comfortable at first, but keep recording. As you do, you’ll find reasons for living, things to look forward too. You’ll find a darkness that’s less dim. You may begin to find the light of Divine Love shining on you as you wake to what’s good.
Life Examined:
1. Review yesterday in your imagination and record three things that brought you pleasure or joy. Can you see the Divine Love at work through those things?
2. In prayer or meditation, thank your maker for giving you good things in the land of the living. Offer gratitude for a world full of pleasures.
***Let’s Wake Up Together***
THE BOOK OF WAKING UP —a book on addiction, attachment, and the Divine Love—launched TUESDAY so order a copy or ten at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Bookish (my favorite indie bookseller). Then, forward this post to a friend and ask them to read along.
The Virtual Retreat: A Liturgy of Silence
Preface: I’m beginning a short book of prose on the topic of silence. For more information, and to subscribe to the project, visit my latest Substack Post.
Virtual Retreat Day 1: A Liturgy of Silence
I was raised in a busy spirituality. We had a pipe organ and horn section in our Sunday service. There was a youth night with chubby-bunny contests, a raucous band, lights, cameras, always action. Everything was amped or next-level or peak. Never was I led into silence or solitude. Never was I told that the Divine Love is a quiet presence, or if I was, there was so much noise that I didn’t hear it.
From a teenage sociological perspective, I suppose this is quite understandable. After all, silence and solitude are, as a practical matter, boring. And what amped teen relishes boredom? Isn’t the next-level spiritual experience supposed to be exciting? Isn’t peak spirituality innately busy, perhaps loud?
In my adult years, I’ve come to believe that dedicated times of silence and solitude open spiritual, psychological, and even creative doors. In my book Coming Clean days, I journaled through the first 90 days of sobriety. In that spit of a season, I sat in the silence of my living room night after night and opened myself to the numinous. In stillness and solitude, I found it easier to organize my thoughts. I wrote in the silence each day, and as I did, my creativity imagination opened. What’s more, I experienced the coming of Divine Love, the presence of the Christ I thought I’d never experience again.
In her article “The Call of Solitude,” Ester Buchholz, who authored a book by the same name, mused on the necessity of silence and solitude in the religious experience. She wrote:
For religion to have its greatest appeal, it must allow time for solitude. The book of Genesis lays this foundation. Within the creation story, God established Saturday, the Shabbat, as a day of rest, set aside from all others. The Shabbat was a time to contemplate one's life and the scriptures. We can do the same, whether we take a day of rest for ourselves, or an hour of quiet prayer, or even a few minutes of meditation. Whether in a remote, faraway stillness or in the very center of a community, the hermit or itinerant monk resides in us all.
How to Incorporate Silence and Solitude Into Your Week
At 5:45 on each Monday morning, I make my way to our local Catholic Church and spend time in the adoration chapel. There, I gather with a small group of regulars whose faces I’ve come to know. We do not say a word, but instead, enter into silence and solitude, faces turned toward the sacramental bread placed on the altar. I sit in a personal pew. Occasionally, I kneel. There, I begin my week in perfect stillness, asking the Divine Love to come, to open my heart and mind for the upcoming week. I pray for friends and family as they come to mind, turn to the Scriptures if one comes blazing into my brain. For the most part, though, I carry no agenda into that hour other than to be still and silent before the God of the universe. Often, it’s the richest hour of my week.
Silence doesn’t happen by accident. It takes liturgical, habituated effort. So today, I’m inviting you to create your own weekly liturgy or ritual of stillness and solitude, even if it’s only an hour. How?
Life Examined: Create a Liturgy of Silence
1. Identify one hour a week where you can practice silence and solitude. I say “practice” because it might not be easy at first.
2. Enter into the time with no expectations (and even more importantly, no cell phone). Consider using a simple prayer to focus your attention. I often enter into silence by repeating the Jesus Prayer—Lord Jesus Christ, Son of the Living God, have mercy on me, a sinner.
3. Bring a journal and a copy of your favorite religious text. Remember, this is not a time for productivity, but when you feel the pull of Divine Love, turn to prayer, journaling, or reading the text. You might be surprised by what comes out.
4. After your hour of silence and solitude, reflect. What did you notice? Was it uncomfortable or peaceful? Were you pulled to distraction, you mind racing? Did it feel like an hour of relief or torture?
5. Commit to practicing this weekly ritual of silence and solitude on the same day for two months. See what happens.
***A Special Invitation***
What to hear more about how you can help bring a book on silence to life? Don’t forget to head to my latest Substack post for more.
THE BOOK OF WAKING UP —a book on addiction, attachment, and the Divine Love—launched TUESDAY so order a copy or ten at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Bookish (my favorite indie bookseller). Then, forward this post to a friend and ask them to read along.
Developing Personal Liturgies: A Week-long Virtual Retreat
I’ve been punching out words on a near-daily basis and publishing them here. It’s been an active liturgy of creation, one that requires a consistent commitment to a time (5:15 in the morning), place (the gray chair by the fireplace), and an embodied action (putting words to my thoughts). This one act sets the tone of the day. If I publish in the morning, I’ve accomplished something even before I drink my first cup of coffee.
As I wrote last week, our liturgies and rituals are acts of embodied resistance against despair. My morning liturgy of creation is one such act. But this creative liturgy is not the only ritual in my life. In fact, on a good week, I incorporate several liturgies, rituals, and habits.
This week, I’ll lead you through a sort of virtual retreat. It’s meant to help you identify and develop your own personal liturgies. These practices should ground you spiritually, physically, and emotionally. They should provide space for connection with the numinous, the Divine Love. They should direct your work and the ways you interact with others (both in the physical world and in the digital).
Will you follow along in this week-long virtual retreat? Will you commit to examining and developing your own personal liturgies as an act of resistance against despair?
Life Examined:
Do you have any daily, weekly, or monthly liturgies? It might include morning reading or journaling, weekly solitude and silence, or a monthly work-planning day.
Do you resist forming personal liturgies or rituals? If so, why?
***WAKE UP WITH ME***
THE BOOK OF WAKING UP —a book on addiction, attachment, and the Divine Love—launched TUESDAY so order a copy or ten at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Bookish (my favorite indie bookseller). Then, forward this post to a friend and ask them to read along.