Mary van Balen

Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.



from Mary Oliver's poem Sometimes
(Mary Oliver, 1935 - )




"I didn't get your book proposal," my sister messaged and I received on my new iPod Touch.

"Sorry. I pulled up your email address. Just forgot to do anything with it. Where IS my mind?"

Where indeed. This is a "day off" and already I am behind. Sore from a night of trying out a foam mattress at the same sister's house, I have driven my car to the auto shop where repairs were completed after a fender bender, but an oversight on the door lock needs attention. I have visited two grocery stores (feeling a bit like an old lady in a nightgown as I dressed by pulling a knit sleeveless dress over my head, ran a brush through my hair, and slipped on stretched out black flats that slap the floor when I walk) finding all three ingredients for meatball appetizers (read frozen meatballs, grape jelly, and chili sauce) I am crockpotting for a swim party tonight. Did I mention that this is the first day in weeks that we will have rain? Read More 

Maybe it's because I just had a conversation with my sister about the Roman Catholic church's secrecy around its position paper on transsexuality. (Even enlisting the help of members of the hierarchy, I could not access the Vatican's position document on transsexuality issued "sub secretum" in 2000 and later sent to presidents of bishops' conferences.)

Maybe it's because I have written and talked to political representatives about passing laws to provide job and housing protection for transsexuals to no avail.

Maybe it's because I have a transsexual daughter.

Maybe it's because I have admired the Episcopalian's willingness to discuss difficult moral issues openly and to include in the conversation everyone from the Presiding Bishop Katharine Jefferts Schori to the person in the pew. (Saint Benedict would be proud. See Rule of Saint Benedict, Chapter 3

Maybe it's because, like so many others, I grow tired of waiting.

Maybe it's all of the above. No matter. I am heartened by the Episcopalian decision to officially welcome and include transgender people in the ranks of clergy as well as adding transgender people to the non-discrimination canons. I agree with Rev. Susan Russell who said in her column, Episcopal Church Makes Landmark Decision for Transgender Inclusion, July 9, 2012 was a good day to be an Episcopalian.

A good day to be someone who trusts that the Spirit is dynamically present in the people of God, and that includes me and you and the two ladies down the street, and the young child who is afraid to say anything about how she is feeling about the wrongness of her body. A good day to be someone who trusts that the Spirit has something to say to the rest of us through the experience of their lives.

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(Originally published in the Catholic Times, July 12, 2012 © 2012 Mary van Balen)

Wednesday, July 11 was the feast of Saint Benedict of Nursia. Before his birth in 480, the Roman Empire was crumbling and various barbarian tribes had invaded Italy. Benedict studied in Rome during a peaceful interlude, but paganism and deteriorating conditions of the city were too much for the young man who left the city and lived as a hermit for a while in Subiaco. His holiness attracted others and eventually, he consented to become an abbot for a group of monks.

This first experiment did not end well; the monks tried to poison him! But later, Benedict did shepherd a number of small monastic communities, eventually founding the monastery of Monte Cassino. Benedict is most famous for his Rule that guided the lives of the monks. He called it a rule for beginners, but it has become the foundation for most monastic rules in the West.

I have had the opportunity to live near one of the largest Benedictine Abbey’s in the country and spent time joining the monks in Liturgy of the Hours as well as Mass. Benedictine hospitality wraps around visitors and draws us in. After a few days, one becomes accustomed to the slow cadence of praying the Psalms, pausing at the end of each line regardless of punctuation, allowing God to slip into the hiatus.

I took time this morning to reread the Rule. Written so long ago, parts are no longer applicable, but for anyone desiring to grow closer to God, Benedict offers wisdom and guidance. In the Prologue, Benedict uses Scripture (He does so throughout as did Francis in his Rule.) to assure us of God’s desire for us, God’s loving Presence, and the Spirit’s voice speaking to all “…that have ears to hear.” Famously, Benedict’s Rule stresses moderation and flexibility. He aims to “…set down nothing harsh, nothing burdensome…” but “…a little strictness to amend faults and safeguard love.”  Read More 

Readers of this blog know I have found grace and renewal at Saint John's Abbey in Collegeville, MN, Saint Benedict's Monastery in St. Joseph, MN, and the Collegeville Institute for Ecumenical & Cultural Research. The three are closely related not only geographically but most importantly by their roots in Benedictine spirituality, and in the case ofthe monastery and abbey, the Rule of St. Benedict.

Benedict's Rule, while providing stability and orderly creative space to some in the tumultuous times in which he lived, continues to guide many who seek the same today.

In this morning's Huffington Post, St. Benedict vs Rugged Individualism, by Thomas Worcester, offers thoughts on the Rule's relevance for current political debates on healthcare and immigration.

Today the Roman Catholic Church celebrates the feast of Saint Benedict, Abbot. I celebrate it, too, rereading some of the Rule, wearing the new St. Benedict Jubilee medal I bought while attending a writing workshop at the Institute last month, and intentionally living the day with the famous Benedictine balance of work, prayer, recreation, and study.

One day this June, while leaving the Abbey church there after morning prayer, I saw buzz of activity around a newly installed statue of Benedict. Sculpted by Br. David Paul OSB, Benedict holds a book and quill and is surrounded by more books and manuscripts. A large raven or crow stands at the saint's feet. Often thought of as a bad omen or a harbinger of death, the crow has a brighter side, and even has a place on the jubilee medal. In Christian lore it can symbolize Divine Providence, bringing food to saints who, for one reason or another , are spending time alone in deserted places. Elijah, for example. Or Benedict.  Read More 

OK. I live in Columbus, Ohio not far from The Ohio State University. A Buckeye alumna, I may be expected by some to be less effusive about that "place up North," but I must confess, I love Ann Arbor. I spent a couple of days there recently and enjoyed everything from the weather (7 to 10 degrees cooler than home) to the interesting shops and the plethora of ethnic eating places. Of course, the biggest draw is family, especially my daughter. Spending time exploring Ann Arbor is always most enjoyable with her.

She took me to favorite restaurants, starting off with an appetizer and wine at the Pacific Rim. The crab cakes were delicately delicious. So good, in fact, that we ordered a second round.

We walked to the next destination, Amadeus Cafe, but were disappointed to discover it was closed for dinner on Sunday. We turned and made our way to Cafe Felix and were not disappointed with a Julia Child's favorite, beef bourguignon. Wine, salad, bread, and peach melba a la mode finished off the dinner.

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“With all its faults, I am still grateful that I live in this country,” my daughter said as we shared breakfast. “I mean, when I wake up I might wonder how hot it is, or what I should wear when I go outside. I don’t wonder if, once I venture outside my house, if I will return safely. Or return at all. Literally.”

Justin, also visiting for the weekend agreed. “Thanks for Justice Roberts. And you likely won’t hear me say that again!” He laughed. Roberts’ unexpected “yes” vote kept Obama’s healthcare reform alive, and despite Republican posturing and promises to overturn the decision or repeal the healthcare act, they will not achieve their end through physical violence. Read More 

According to James Lipton’s book An Exaltation of Larks, a group of turkeys is called a “raft,” as in a large, often motley collection of things: a raft of books. (p 47). I do not intend to challenge the term found in the 1486 book by Dame Juliana, "The Boke of Saint Albans," or the earlier "Egerton Manuscript," 1450, but rather to add to it my own term of venery for a gathering of these birds based on personal experience.

One evening last week, all of us attending the writing workshop at Collegeville, ate dinner at the Episcopal House of Prayer just down the road from the Institute. After wine and lentil stuffed peppers, we walked to see the Oratory that sits next door. Chairs circled the diameter of the prayer room, pillows and mats dotting the space between the edge and the center circle that was filled with sand and held an ornate brass cross on a tall standard. The space above the center telescoped out in softly lit layers that drew the eye to the evening sky.

A small rectangular space sat at the four direction points, a window looking out at the nearby woods. Four women were gathered in one of these, looking outside and discussing a bird in their view.

I heard snatches of their conversation:

“Do you think it’s a wild turkey?”

“No. I don’t think they can fly that high.”

“Maybe it’s a turkey buzzard.”

As one who had made a list of birds I might see while in Minnesota, I walked over and looked out the window to see the mysterious creature.  Read More 

Noon prayer did it. Three funerals in the Abbey Church that day, so I successfully navigated the maze beneath it and found the small chapel where prayers would be said. Two psalms spoke:

"Have mercy on me, O God, in your faithful love, in your great tenderness wipe away my offences; wash me clean from my guilt, purify me from my sin. For I am well aware of my offences, my sin is constantly in mind." Ps 51, 1-3.

Well, I hadn't been well aware of anything until I prayed that line. Perhaps it was hearing the words in communal voice, but I knew what I had done: I had forgotten what I had been given, and not been thankful.

Lately, I have been more aware of what I haven't been given: a job that feeds my spirit and makes better use of my gifts; a job that pays the bills; a home for my book revised, revised, and revised again; vision for my future...

As I prayed, I was suddenly embarrassed. How could I focus so much on what seems missing and overlook the gifts...

-The opportunity to come to the Institute, attend the writing workshop and pray at the Abbey. Reconnecting with old friends and making new ones.
-A fulltime job.
-Health. Home.
-Close family.
-Supportive friends.
The list could go on, but the point was made. I had sinned. Read More 

I stand on the patio behind the apartment and watch rain pour down in long lines, like strokes from a pen, shrouding everything in gray. Thunder rumbles in the background. A small chickadee, sinichka my friend from St. Petersburg called them, takes shelter in the blue spruce beside me. We are both hushed into reverential silence. I stand close to the brick house, beneath the overhang. Together, sinichka and I feel the wind and watch it play across the water, patches of light blooming and then, just as quickly, dissoloving back into dark as the wind changes its mind and churns up brightness somewhere else on the lake. Sometimes the light races across the surface, hanging on to the wind, but can't keep up and lets go, falling back into smooth green water.

We wait, sinichka and I. I'm not sure what she waits for. I suspect that once the heavy rain turns into a gentle summer shower, she will fly off in search of food, calling out "chick a dee dee dee" as she dips and darts away. I am waiting for Grace.  Read More 

The Lord's voice shattering the cedars;
The Lord shatters the cedars of Lebanon.
He makes Lebanon leap like a calf
And Sirion like a young ox.

The Lord's voice flashes flames of fire.
The Lord's voice shaking the wilderness,
The Lord's voice shakes the wilderness of Kadesh.
The Lord's voice rending the oak tree
And stripping th forest bare.
Ps. 29





The Psalm said the Lord’s voice shattered cedars. I looked around the Abbey Church. We were still standing, monks and the rest of us. All in all, morning prayer was pretty calm. A few voices stumbling to follow the chant. A few more following a more hurried pace, not yet used the monastic practice of pausing a bit at the end of each line regardless of punctuation. Prayer with the monks slows me down and gives God time to move into the hiatus. I have been here before. I know the pace will soon become habitual and when I return home, church will seem rushed.

But I am waiting for my heart to be shattered like the cedars. To feel Divine Power shaking me to my roots. Then I’ll know what to be about. What words to put down on paper…or in this case to fill the computer screen. Selling bras at Macy’s, doing laundry, watering flowers. It isn’t enough. Or it seems not to be. Then there was the customer who came by on Saturday just to wish me well at the workshop. Her daughter stopped by last week and told me her mom talks about me all the time. Recently widowed, she is a bit lost, and enjoys our conversations and my interest.

“Remember the worker priests of the 50’s and 60’s?” my counselor asked. “That is you. At Macy’s.” I guess she is right. I have women who come back to see me, sometimes just to talk, like Claire who wished me well, or Katherine, the sweet old woman in a wheelchair who told me she was so glad that she met me and had me fit her for bras. We spent forty minutes picking out three. There was the young woman who worked in the same department. She is a writer, too. Life had been beating her down lately. Assault. Illness. Separating parents. Medications. She missed too much work and was let go. I am sorry for that. She was great with customers and worked hard putting bras away, a thankless and futile exercise. We connected. I read her poetry. We hugged goodbye.

(Hmm the dragonfly at my backdoor. Does he want back in after I rescued him from the bathtub this morning? Or maybe just saying ‘thank you?’)

So, where is the soul-shaking I long for? Read More