Reconnecting

When I feel my spiritual connection weakening, I find it helpful to reinstate lapsed devotional practices.
I don’t know how it happens — the veering away of practices that ground me —
but it does.
I get busy,
or overwhelmed
and feel like I can’t spare the time.
Sometimes I need to escape the truths that present themselves so clearly when I’m in dialogue prayer
and distract myself with social events,
movies,
even chores.
Walking in nature and paying close attention to creation is one of the devotional practices I cherish.
Yet even that can drift to the wayside. Perhaps it’s time to reconnect…

Photos © Sondra Sula.

Take a walk with me by reading my daily devotional book, Meditations on Mendocino by Sondra Sula. Available on Amazon in paperback or Kindle versions.

If you’d prefer a daily river walk, Reflections on the Fox River and Beyond by Sondra Sula, might just be the book for you.

Engaging the Senses

Going for a walk always makes me feel better.
Part of it is visual: I’m stimulated by color and shape.
Part of it is olfactory: I like to smell fragrant flowers, pungent tree sap, the salt-tinged air.
Part of it is auditory: I love the sound of waves splashing, ravens’ wings flapping, twigs snapping underfoot.
Part of it is tactile. I touch things: the plump, juicy leaf of an ice plant, the silky petal of a poppy, the nubby center of a daisy.
I even taste plants upon occasion: perfumed rose petals, peppery nasturtium leaves, tart thimbleberries.
When I engage all of my senses I forget my troubles for a while. It is then that I enter creation’s garden where I can tarry with God.

Photos © Sondra Sula.

Take a walk with me by reading my most recent daily devotional book, Meditations on Mendocino by Sondra Sula. Available on Amazon in paperback or Kindle versions.

If you’d prefer a daily river walk, Reflections on the Fox River and Beyond by Sondra Sula, might just be the book for you.

The Point

I felt slightly agitated when I began my walk. The day had gotten away from me and it was almost dinner time, but I felt if I didn’t squeeze in the time now, I would lie in bed that night, full of regret.

I’m not sure why I put off things I enjoy doing. My “walks of wonder” are at the top of my list, along with other spiritual practices, and yet I usually feel guilty spending my time this way. However, at day’s end, I almost always feel that these events were the most important.

My irritation began to dissipate immediately upon seeing a spike of irresistibly cheerful yellow flowers. When I turned the corner and spied a garland of small purple lanterns, I forgot all about feeling unhappy and simply wanted to set up a garden tea party under their floral luminescence. But whom would I invite?

A yellow jacket caught my eye and seemed to say: hey, what about me? I’ll go. And a honey bee on a matilija poppy offered to stop collecting pollen for a while to imbibe some sweet tea.

A cluster of fuchsia joined in the fun as chandeliers, their intense color adding to the radiant glow, while a silvery green carpet of tightly packed miniature gazania leaves provided a soft, spongy place to rest.

The final attendees were the most bristly of all—spiny cactus, a thorny-stemmed plant and barbed pine cones. They reminded me that only minutes before I was grumpy, prickly to the touch. It may not have been the dinner I was planning, but the lesson sure was sweet.

All photos © Sondra Sula.

When Things Fall Apart

There is a Carmelite Stations of the Cross I like to visit near The National Shrine of St. Thérèse. Situated in a small grove of trees, the ceramic stations were originally attached to either side of seven large stone monoliths arranged in a circle. One would travel along the outer circle, and then move inward to complete the devotion. A wonderful symbolic journey.

A number of years had passed since I had last seen the Stations, and when I arrived, the clay works of art were cracked, their turquoise, ivory and gold glazes flaking off. Very few were even attached to the stones. Once flamboyantly surrounded by gleaming teal and eggplant-hued tiles, many of the ceramic images were now nestled in the grass, leaning against their once-imposing monoliths. I found a single inch-square tile in the mud and placed it on a ledge. The Stations of the Cross were falling apart, and yet they exuded a poignant, hard-scrapple beauty.

Presently I am in the process of dismantling. I am taking apart my garden fence and breaking down bookcases into slabs of wood. I am removing precious objects, carefully arranged for maximum aesthetic impact, and packing them into dull brown cardboard boxes. My daily life is coming apart at the seams, my culling creating the disorganization that precedes organization.

Our home is a giant mess, and yet the actual packing of items into boxes feels cleansing, freeing. Right now I’m in the outer circle, towards the beginning of the process. I am not centered yet. But soon I will turn the corner and find myself in the inner circle, the place of deep calm.

The ceramic Stations of the Cross will continue to deteriorate, my house will eventually be devoid of all the objects that once rested there, comforting me. But the Carmelites have already built a new set of Stations a few acres away, and everything that appears to be falling apart in my life will be put back together in a new place, many miles away.

All photos © Sondra Sula.

Snow Shapes

Snow drifts down from the sky like shaved coconut, sweetening the landscape with its whiteness. I pass a melted spot along an asphalt portion of the path—a circle scattered with freshly cut wood chips. Its dark eye stares at me and I stare back, noting its conglomerate composition, which is made of many different stones joined together.

Snowflakes are falling individually and slowly; I can capture their shapes in the lens of my camera. One flake looks like six fir trees laid flat and merged into a single trunk. Another looks like a brittle star floating in an ocean sky. An X-shaped snow crystal begs the question: Is it missing two “limbs” or is it fully formed?

I walk by an aqua-hued bottle poking out of the snow, its liquid interior frozen into bubbles. I feel conflicted because I dislike litter, and yet this piece compels me to come closer, to view it as a shape. I don’t wonder why someone threw it there because there are many reasons people litter; I’m contemplating its suggestion that there is beauty in everything.

Finally I see a tuft of grass—bright green as if unaware of winter. The snow and ice have created a protective coating around the small outcrop keeping the blades pliable and nourished.

At first, the snow shapes appear to be conveying different messages, but each causes me to ponder conventional definitions of beauty. My response to the world informs my perception of it. I choose to love it, in all its forms.

All photos © Sondra Sula.

Everything is Inside

The subzero temperatures have kept me indoors with shades clamped shut against the howling winds. I’ve been wearing an outdoor scarf doubled around my neck in the house, yet my fingertips remain cold. The only place to go is inside my head—to the possibilities of spring.

When I contemplate plants, I realize they contain all that is necessary to continue life anew through seeds, bulbs, corms, rhizomes, roots. When I ruminate on caterpillars, I realize they also possess all they need for complete transformation. Everything is inside.

I also have everything I need to transform into the person I was meant to be. I may not recognize this at first. After all, does a seed look anything like a flower? Does a caterpillar remotely resemble a moth or a butterfly?

If I keep “at it”—feed on spiritual exercise, bask in wonder, continually give thanks for God’s abundance—change is inevitable. I’m even beginning to see a different person when I look in the mirror. My smooth skin now has a pattern of dots and lines. It’s only a matter of time before I feel bumps rising from my shoulder blades. By then, I’ll be ready to fly.

Photo 1: Quaking oat grass. Photo 2: American dagger moth caterpillar; great swallowtail caterpillar; yellow woolly bear caterpillar. Photo 3: Giant leopard moth caterpillar; turbulent phosphila caterpillar; dogbane tiger moth caterpillar. Photo 4: Tent caterpillars; smeared dagger moth caterpillar. All photos © Sondra Sula.

Wet

If there were a theme to my walks in Mendocino County, California, it would be rain. The irony of this wetness during my time there resides in the fact that this area has been plagued with drought for years, so rain is cherished. Like a healing balm drenching everything from cactus to pine, water falls steadily from the sky day in and day out.

Occasionally, pieces of sun pierce the gray, lighting up crimson, blue, pink and yellow flowers. Raindrops are held on petals, balanced on buds, offered like sacrifices on the frilly edges of stigmas. I delight in the vibrancy and saturation of their hues.

Then suddenly, thick slate clouds gather, loud cracks and grumblings fill the electric air, sheets of water pour forth and I run for cover. The nimble flowers duck their heads, the strong keep their cupped faces upward, letting themselves be filled to the brim where only tension holds the watery ball from dropping to earth.

Every tiny, liquid crystal is a fisheye mirror, taking in the surrounding glory and pushing it back out—reflecting its own community and anything venturing close enough to become a part of it. Even I am welcomed as I approach, seeing my distorted face become part of the plant community.

And that’s when I understand our oneness anew—how God has always wanted us to know we are one giant organism working together, whether we accept our role or not. We cannot NOT be part of the whole. We simply are: brother cactus, sister pine, heavenly rain.

All photos © Sondra Sula.

Walking at Sunset

“Throwing Up Their Hands at Nightfall” by Sondra Sula

I normally walk in the morning, if pressed, the afternoon. But I rarely walk at sunset.

The light at the end of the day has a different quality to it, usually more yellow or pink, and slanted dramatically to create long shadows opposite the sun. Tree limbs, when backlit, can take on a wild, flailing look, as if they are throwing up their hands at nightfall, unable to stop its progression.

“Creek Snake” by Sondra Sula

A small creek runs behind our house that can trickle or tumble depending on the amount of rain or snow accumulation. At dusk it changes to a shimmering snake flecked with gold and purplish scales. Because leaves have dropped to the ground and only twiggy branches remain, I see farther up towards the snake’s mouth where it gobbles up the forest.

Empty nests of birds and squirrels are obvious now, silhouetted against coral clouds. I know the birds have gone, but I imagine squirrels curled inside smooth curves of brown oak leaves, made soft by repeated naps.

God has created a system in which the winding down process for the night is tinged with beauty. We are given a painterly canvas of sky to remember our small place in the world, a lullaby, sung by nature, to gently hum us to sleep. Look, listen and enjoy the night to come.

“Curling in Their Nests” by Sondra Sula

 

Remnants

“Remnants of Autumn” by Sondra Sula

Two days before nearly a foot of snow fell, I was walking along Lake Michigan on a solitary stretch of beach with my husband, a friend, and her dog. It was a rare warm day for the middle of November, especially since we were on the Michigan side of the lake. Soon I was alone, my meandering curiosity widening the gap between us until the three were mere dots in the distance. I followed the scalloped edges of debris that had formed during high tide.

“Weathered Acorn” by Sondra Sula

Most of the items washed up on the sand were remnants: a silken finger of wood, fallen leaves, emptied shells, a blackened acorn. Each told the story of a previous life. The wood, leaves and acorn were formerly part of a living, growing tree. They had traveled from sky to earth, had rolled into the water, and then had been returned, changed. Even the rocks and shells that had begun their lives in the lake had been coughed out, transformed.

I began to contemplate how I am only a remnant of what I used to be. My cells have sloughed off time and time again, and my rough edges have grown smoother over the years. As I navigate the lake of life, I transition between effortlessly floating, sinking to the bottom, and somersaulting through the waves, pounded by the surf. I am becoming someone new, different, and more interesting. I am now worn and polished to the point where glimpses of my inner life can be seen on my surface.

I felt a brief moment of unity with all of creation—comfortable being a remnant.

“Along Lake Michigan” by Sondra Sula

Urban Solitude

“Graffiti Pussy Willow” by Sondra Sula

“Unintentional Abstract” by Sondra Sula

I love solitude. When I am performing the spiritual practice of Gratefulness Walking, part of the reason I can pay attention to the details around me is because I am alone. I live in a city of roughly 200,000 people, enveloped within the Chicagoland metropolitan area of almost ten million people. Finding solitude, even in nature isn’t all that easy.

I come across many man-made structures from transformers to highway bridges to decrepit abandoned buildings. These structures are part of my nature walk even though they are not what most people consider to be natural. I like to get close enough to find beauty within their textures, patinas, and subtle colors. I think of them as unintentional abstract art on unconventional canvases.

Solitary practices allow God to whisper to me instead of shouting to be heard over the din. When I am silent and observant, suspending judgment, the world opens to me in a newer, friendlier way. A person intent on being destructive with scratching and spray paint has just brought me joy, unaware. And God has allowed me to find peaceful solitude amidst the millions.

“Chicken Scratch” by Sondra Sula