Gatherings at the Little House: Thursday's Reflection

During the last few days our home has been filled with Spirit. The

Spirit of laughter and new friendships. The Spirit of connection. The Spirit of response to our true callings and essence. The Spirit of blessing as one leaves our midst, but remains in our hearts. 

Most days our Little House is quiet. True, I meet my spiritual direction clients here and the walls absorb our reflections. True, our grandson Peter sometimes is here after school, chatting about his day, teasing his Papa about this and that. And now with the windows open we hear the neighborhood children enjoying outside play, but inside our house we move through our days with quiet contentment, tending to our tasks and our pleasures. 

How good it has been these last few days to fill the house with lively conversation and a welcoming sense of community. Sunday evening ten of us gathered for an informal potluck supper, and Tuesday morning the women of Opening to Spirit, a monthly group I have led focused on spiritual practice, assembled to offer blessings to one of our participants before she leaves on a big adventure. And that afternoon the women in my writing group met, each one in our usual living room spot, as if huddled around a campfire, to share our latest efforts. 

 I loved preparing for each of these circles of Spirit. 

I welcomed each guest in my heart even before the doorbell rang or someone crossed the threshold. And I thought about the often-quoted verse, "Where ever two or more are gathered in My name, there I am with them." (Matthew 18:20)

                 As I lay the fork near the plate,
                 let me remember this is Your table, not mine.
                 As I set the water glasses down
                 and fold the napkins, let me be reminded
                 that every setting at this table
                 is Yours, not mine.

                 Each one who will partake of this meal
                 is a particular someone You love, a someone
                 You have made and whom You sustain.
                 In You nothing and no one is forgotten.
                 How vast and providential is the memory
                 with which You keep us all. 
                                            from "Setting the Table"
                                            Being Home, A Book of Meditations
                                            Gunilla Norris

The house has returned to quiet now, but the gifts of fellowship and communion remain. I feel nurtured and fed, even as we have offered food to others. I feel the Presence of Spirit. 

An Invitation
When do you feel Spirit's presence? I would love to know. 

Tuesday's Reflection: The Lure of the Lamp

I love coming downstairs on these dark mornings and turning on the kitchen desk lamp. For just an instant I stand in the glow of a little circle of light. It is still dark outside and in the rest of the house, but right there in that sheltered space, there is light. 

Just enough light to remind me of the light to come.

"Holy Dark"
Joyce Rupp O.S.M in her book Little Pieces of Light, Darkness and Personal Growth calls the kind of darkness that is essential for our growth "holy dark." That's how the early morning dark into light feels to me. 

That one light is a reminder to me to get quiet, listen to the inner promptings. It is in the little circle of light that I meditate and pray. I write. I read. I sit in silence. It is in the little circle of light where there is shelter for deep conversations and connection. The lit lamp reminds me of the inner light that never goes out, even when I may feel overwhelmed by darkness. Light follows the dark. 

And it always does. 

Rituals of Light and Dark
I recall my mother's habit of turning a light on in the bedroom she shared with my father in the early evening or late afternoon during the dark months, and when I was still living at home or in later years if I was visiting, she turned on a lamp in my bedroom as well. When I finally ascended the stairs to my room, the light would be waiting for me, welcoming me and protecting me as I moved into the darkness. That lamp on my dresser symbolized her love for me. I felt loved. 

Now if I stay with my father, I try to remember to turn on a light in his room before he goes to bed. And at home, even though I know it isn't energy efficient, I always leave a lamp on in our bedroom, so whenever my husband or I enter that room, a sign of protection and welcome and love greets us. I think Mom would approve. 


Sometimes during the day the house flashes with light. When potential buyers come to view the house, the routine is to turn on every single light in the house, per realtor instructions.  No matter the time of day or if the sun is blazing. My husband resists this ritual and suggests the realtor can turn on the lights when she/he arrives, but I think the house with all its lights on welcomes its guests and says, "This is a safe place. This is a place where you can create your own light." At other times I imagine someone walking by our house at night and seeing light in the upstairs bedroom window or downstairs in the den or living room. How could anyone not think, "Cozy, peaceful, comfortable"?

Later as one of the last acts of the days I walk through the house turning off each of the lamps which have kept me in the light throughout the day. I put the house to bed before I put myself to bed, trusting that light will follow the darkness. 

And it always does. 

A Gift
                    Turning on the Light

          Without this darkness--no awareness of light.
          Without this light--no awareness of darkness.
           In the flickering of the flame,
           in the delicate filament of the bulb
           is the light that is also the dark,
           the dark that is also the light.

           I shall never understand this mystery.
           Light and dark are somehow the same.
           I want not to prefer one over the other
           but to appreciate their unique
           and simultaneous truth. 

           Now light. Now dark. The switch turns,
           the wick catches fire. In that split second
           dark and light are one
           as is everything in the universe.
                                  Gunilla Norris 
                                  Being Home, A Book of Meditations

An Invitation
How comfortable are you in the dark? How do you create light in the darkness? What are your rituals of light and dark? I look forward to your comments.

The Basics: Sweeping the Front Porch, posted by Nancy L. Agneberg

I am not fond of vacuuming. To be honest, I hate  vacuuming, and lately, in anticipation of showings of our house, I have needed to vacuum frequently. Also, dust and keep surfaces clear of clutter and do laundry daily and, and, and ......  Along with meditating and writing in my journal, my current morning routine with its list of home tending tasks to complete often seems to extend into the afternoon.  I am more than willing to perform these tasks, for it is something I can do to welcome potential new owners to this home.
      Even if this house weren't for sale, however, I would still greet the freshness of the morning by sweeping the front porch, for there is something so basic, almost old-fashioned about sweeping, especially a front porch. 
     I imagine myself as a housewife of the 30's or 40's or even 50's, wearing a housedress and full apron, standing outside the front door with broom in hand. I survey this world in front of me and wonder who will come up the walk and cross this threshold today. Sweeping is convivial, for unlike washing windows, it is interruptible and encourages pausing for a casual conversation with the neighbor pushing a stroller or walking a dog. I listen to the birds chitter chattering, hoping for a piece of discarded thread or a fragment of lint for a nest in process.  I think ahead to the end of the day when my husband and I will have dinner on the porch, sharing our day's in's and out's and perhaps later will sit in quiet companionship reading until daylight disappears. 
     I remember the front porch on the house where we raised our children. That front porch had a swing.  The rhythm of the swing seemed to match the cadence of whatever I read to our young son.   Our daughter and her boyfriend, now husband, posed for prom pictures while sitting on that swing. This porch should have a swing and a young family, too. Maybe it will someday. 
     I begin to sweep and sense how the sweeping signals moving on, not clinging to anything, except the present moment. Sweeping clears the space.  Sweeping says, "This house is cared for." The Shakers believe that their daily work, even something as basic as sweeping the front porch, is a personal expression of worship. Gunilla Norris in her book of poetry, Being Home, says, "Prayer and housekeeping--they go together. They have always gone together. We simply know that our daily round is how we live. When we clean and order our homes, we are somehow also cleaning and ordering ourselves."
      In cleaning and ordering ourselves, we become more open to the extraordinary in the ordinary and the grace of everyday life.  Now, if I only felt this way about vacuuming!