Celtic Spirituality, the Immanent Presence of God

 Celtic Spirituality, the Immanent Presence of God

Gaelic Blessing

“Deep peace of the running wave to you,

Deep peace of the flowing air to you,

Deep peace of the quiet earth to you.

Deep peace of the shining stars to you,

Deep peace of the gentle night to you.

Moon and stars pour their healing light on you,

Deep peace of Christ, the light of the world to you.”

In Celtic Spirituality, God’s presence is in and through the created world. There is no dualism. Nothing is seen as secular. All is holy. Nature is sacred. God is present everywhere, but this is not pantheism. The hills, the sky, the sea, and the forests are not God, but their spiritual qualities reveal God and are connected to God. This is like the artist’s connection to his painting. While bearing the artist’s hand identity, a picture or statue still exists separately from the work.

Gaelic Blessing is the John Rutter anthem our choir sang at my ordination. I have experienced the words of this music from an early age. Sitting by my desk, even in front of a picture window, I become consumed by my world and its problems, and I become self-absorbed. When I go outside, I am in a different world. I suddenly experience a world more significant than my own that I did not create. My problems become small. I become connected to something greater than myself. Following the moon’s rise at night, the rising of the sun in the morning, its setting in the evening, or listening to the constant rhythm of the waves by the ocean brings peace to our bodies, souls, and minds that no drug or substance can duplicate.

Nature helps us live in the present. God most often meets us in the present moment, even on these cold winter days of Advent. Maybe especially in the winter of Advent, when the deciduous trees are now bare and sleeping, so we more clearly see beyond the world around us.

Two authors I had the privilege of getting to know at the College of Preachers are good reads about Celtic Spirituality: Esther de Waal in The Celtic Way of Prayer and Herbert O’Driscoll in The Road to Donaguile: A Celtic Spiritual Journey.

Joanna  https://www.joannaseibert.com/

Painting as a Spiritual Practice

Painting as a Spiritual Practice

ART SHOW RECOLLECTIONS

Guest Writer: Dr. Ken Fellows

        I retired and moved to Kittery Point, Maine, in 2000. Kristin and I soon joined the Kittery Art Association (KAA), a group of artists and art admirers that has existed since 1958. At the start, we helped rebuild a burned-out KAA Gallery, an early 1900s firehouse, and finished the restoration in 2001. That early work allowed me to brag for over 20 years that “I’m one of the few artists who has a permanent collection on view at the gallery …” I painted the ceiling, the walls, and the baseboards.”  I even served for many years as a custodian. I preferred the term ‘art preservationist,’ which means cleaning bathrooms and sweeping out. Over the years, I was a ‘featured artist’ in 3 exhibits. Two of those are memorable, and one is indelible in my mind.

     For one July 2014 show, the promotion for its 5 pm Sunday KAA Opening Reception announced that my watercolor paintings would cover an entire gallery wall and that I would give a 20-minute talk on my artistic motivations, techniques, and pleasures. That very Sunday morning, I was at a Portsmouth trampoline emporium watching my young granddaughter, Ella, running helter-skelter among a mob of kids. Suddenly, I noticed a father convulsing on the floor nearby. I rushed to his side, minutes later to be joined by his wife, who confirmed he suffered grand mal seizures. We did what was needed to attend to him until an ambulance crew arrived.

    At 5 pm that afternoon, I was conversing with a group of new friends at the KAA Opening Reception when a pregnant young woman next to me swooned and collapsed to the floor. It was, oh my, here we go again. After rendering necessary medical support, she revived and was stable 20 minutes later. Just as the ambulance arrived to take her to York Hospital, I was summoned to begin my gallery talk. I recall no compliments on the talk, although someone mentioned that my shift in gears was “impressive.” I didn’t explain that I already had some practice just that morning. Fortunately, no one was hurt by either my medical interventions or my blathering on about watercolors that day --gratification enough.

   Some years later, my local artist friend Bill Paarlberg and I were invited to prepare a 2-man KAA show. That exhibit is memorable for the great fun it was to plan and the appreciative crowd that came. The public was alerted to the lightness of the event by the show’s

title–– “Some Pretty Good Watercolors.” Also, the advertising postcards and posters depicted us as Van Gogh and Cezanne in a ‘2 Stooges’ pose.

     Attendees were greeted on the gallery porch by an African drumming group and tables of edibles and drinks, creating a festive atmosphere. Inside, on the galleries’ second floor, Bill had set up a wide table where viewers were invited to try painting with watercolors. Chairs accommodated all those wishing to dabble with the paints, water, brushes, and paper provided. An accomplished art teacher, Bill led folks in fun exercises and in copying simple scenes he sketched for them. Many gallery viewers participated, and about half were children. Our own paintings adorned the gallery walls and received the usual compliments, but seemed somewhat incidental to the entertainment. Our watercolor extravaganza was later voted “Best Show” of the year by the KAA membership, so perhaps our watercolors were considered “good enough.”  

     A joint show in 2006 … wife Kristin and I with Polly and Peter Moak … is most ingrained in my memory. The show’s opening evening is seared in my mind by the elation of the event and by its sad aftermath. A KAA exhibit comprising only two couples was unique. Kristin was an art major in college and has been a lifelong, active, successful multimedia artist and craftsperson. Polly is recognized locally as an innovative painter, and Peter, a retired art professor, paints creatively in gouache. The turnout that opening evening was large, attracting many personal friends, patrons, and KAA members. The atmosphere was electric, and the praise profuse. Kristin and I left the gallery that evening happy, even euphoric, over the show’s success.

     Upon arriving home at about 7 pm, the phone was ringing. It was my daughter Hannah calling from nearby Portsmouth, NH. She was crying but managed to stammer that our son Ian, 37, had been found dead on the floor of his apartment, his dog lying beside him. My brother John, who, like Ian, lived in Grand Rapids, Michigan, had gone to do a well-being check on his nephew. 

      I recall becoming completely numb and voiceless. Everything went dark. My mind was blank. I called brother John, who confirmed the crushing news. I had gone from the heights of joy to the depths of despair in minutes.   The only reaction I could muster was to step outside into the humid summer air to issue a long, loud, primal scream into that black night. There’s no graceful way to react to the sudden death of a loved one.

     Later, we learned from an autopsy that Ian’s unexpected death was from a cardiomyopathy, an inflammation of the heart muscle. That all happened 15 years ago, but for me –and even more for Kristin –the date remains the saddest, most devastating recollection of our life together.

             “… Losing a child is simply not supposed to happen. The brain goes numb. God’s

 way of offering mercy. If we were fully cognizant, it would be unbearable.”—Garrison Keillor 

Ken Fellows

Joanna Seibert joannaseibert.com

December 7th, Honoring Those We Loved Who Have Died

December 7th

Charleston: I honor you
“I honor you. I honor you for who you are and for what you have done. You did not become the person you are without effort. You have weathered many storms and seen many changes. You have kept going when others might have given up. You have lived your life like an artist, creating what you did not have, dreaming what you could not see. And in so doing, you have touched many other lives.

You have brought your share of goodness into the world. You have helped more than one person when they needed you. I honor you for walking with integrity, for making hope real, and for being who you have become. I honor you.”—Bishop Steven Charleston, Facebook Page.

 December 7th

 This week, we remembered December 7th, the anniversary of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. It was also the anniversary of the day I stopped smoking 46 years ago. That was the day of my grandfather Whaley’s funeral in 1979.

He taught me the most about unconditional love. I wanted to honor him and knew he disliked my smoking. His mother died when he was seven years old of lung disease (Tuberculosis). My grandfather taught me about love when he was alive, and saved my life when he died. My younger brother and mother died of complications from smoking, and I could so easily have done the same.

Several years ago, I honored my grandfather and his mother when my husband and daughter helped me trek to my great-grandmother’s grave in an isolated graveyard in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. It was not an easy adventure.

First, we entered the Park near Gatlinburg, went over one small bridge on a dirt road, then an even smaller bridge, parked on another unpaved road with a chain across it, and walked a half-mile on an uneven path with roots crisscrossing it until we came to the secret, well-kept cemetery, a cathedral-like open space framed by a canopy of trees.

We later learned this was the Whaley-Plemmons Cemetery in Greenbrier, where a once-busy mountain community of schools, churches, and homes once stood.

My experience with the grief recovery group, Walking the Mourner’s Path, teaches me that honoring those you love who have died is one of the most significant ways of healing. So, today, I do what others have taught me: celebrate an important person in my life that I loved and honor someone he loved.

You can learn more about my grandfather in my recent book, Letters from my Grandfather: A History of Two Decades of Unconditional Love, available on Amazon. Proceeds from the sale of the $20 book go to Camp Mitchell. My grandfather wrote to me every week while I was away at school. The book contains some of his letters, and my response to them now, 50 to 60 years later. It is a response to love outside of time by both of us.

Joanna           https://www.joannaseibert.com/