“Many of us who learnt lessons of inadequacy early in life are unprepared to live with potential, constantly undermining ourselves” - it’s heartbreaking to see the damage such lessons can cause. Kindness and compassion for ourselves is a good place to start the repair process, as well as building our belief that we are enough (and more…), despite what the stories in our heads might tell us. And believing that, like all stories, they can be rewritten…
Dear Anne, thank you, kindness and compassion for ourselves as a good place to start to repair and build a sense of self independent of childhood and subsequent unkindnesses and cruelties is very resonant for me now, though rather late on in life. That was good to be reminded, xxoo
I'm a latecomer to that process myself, Aud... The phrase “unremembered wings” from the lines below by Pablo Neruda is a beautiful description for me of our inner beauty and worth: “…And something ignited in my soul / fever or unremembered wings / and I went my own way, / deciphering / that burning fire.”
Cleaning, whether dishes or clothes, brings me into the present moment and helps remove the fear and pain caused by a cruel world. Walking outside does as well There is something about moving g the body the quiets the worrying mind.
While cleaning is never "first on my list" there is something comforting about the repetitive nature of the task. It begs the mind to wander... don't you think?
And walking outdoors, YES! It does quiet a worrying mind!
If I am by the sea I immerse myself first thing in the morning, this is a baptism in itself. But my city life practice is to read several pages of a book I want absorb and remember. I underline phrases or sentences I love and then I write them out by hand in a journal. Honouring words and wisdom in this way nourishes my spirit.
Imagining, -while under the radiotherapy machine, a 'thin space.' I had cancer treatment recently. It helped me transform and use the time to gather my loved ones in- I felt so close to them all. Also, I felt connected to other unknown, worried souls, who had undergone a time underneath the machine- with all the emotions the experience brings. I'm not sure what I define as prayer. However, I do know that I felt a very strong connection to my Catholic roots, and the gentle, clicking noise of my mothers and grandmother's rosary beads in our beautiful, busy church during mass.
I believe in times of deep illness, the only prayer can be breath. I love how you could hear the clicking as that of rosary beads. I am not Catholic but many friends are and find the ritual comforting.
Dia daoibh ó Dublin town on St Patrick's Weekend. 🇮🇪 I wrote this poem this week, it could be a response to your posed question, Pádraig. See what you or your readers think...
Patrick, thanks so much for this post. I don't think I would have been a poet or novelist if I weren't Irish. In fact, at 74, I'm in the process of getting my Irish citizenship because my grandfather was born there. So that heritage grounds me, but what really grounds me is poetry and just how it can transform one. Yesterday I posted a piece on my friend Naomi Shihab Nye's poem, "Kindness"--a poem that, in these troubled times, everyone should read it at least once a week. In this post, I also recount my encounter with Jane Goodall and explain how meeting Goodall and reading Naomi's poem inspire and ground me in similar ways, because of their hopeful visions of humanity.
Peter, yes, I love Jane Goodall. How wonderful that you met her, and that Naomi Shihab Nye is a friend of yours! "Kindness" is one of my all time favorite poems. Poetry is transforming.
Wendell Berry's Poem, "How to be a Poet" is written out on a chalk board in my studio. When my chest feels tight I might remember to read it out loud, and it grounds me.
The act that grounds me most is cooking for people. Cooking always nurtures my soul and the best is in the summertime or fall when I can walk out into my garden and harvest this or that, which I have tended to, to be added to the pot. It connects all who share in the meal to the earth and to each other.
Early on I learned that I could be competent at home and in coursework, but not in relationships with peers. This stuck with me into adulthood as I struggled to find myself and maintain that sense of structure when with others. I often turned to music, playing my favorite “poems” set to music over and over again. They spoke for me.
Thank you, Pádraig, for illuminating the story of St. Patrick’s life, and for the query… my practical practices are movement- walks, runs, dancing, swimming, stretching my body- from which I find contemplation, for my mind as well as my body- and I no longer choose to buy into negative messages and narratives as they try themselves on in my mind (thank you, years and lessons lived)—happy to be here to great each day- try to make a difference, connect with family and friends, walk into a new season.
Thank you for your enlightening post, Pádraig... The process that grounds me in terrible times is my daily practice of chanting Sanskrit hymns, & sitting meditation, for about an hour each day. Whether in morning & evening sessions, or all at once, returning to the same prayers & practices keeps me sailing steadily forward on my spiritual journey. I've chosen all the chants myself, to Ganesh, Lakshmi, Saraswati & Shiva~ which I see as aspects of one God~ so it's a very personalized practice of honoring divinity, which often takes me from despondency to a realm of calm.
Dancing keeps my mind focused on the movement and the music with no room for other concerns of the world. Mosaic art, especially when made in community, also has saved me in past troubled times.
Moving to a new place helped to also move away from how I thought about and described myself. Return to my hometown can set my mind back to an old way of self-regard. I look forward to reading how others exorcise their old tropes while remaining in place.
Fascinating - do the saints of a country speak about the people or vice versa? My own perhaps heretical thoughts attached -
THAT EXTRA DAY FEB 29TH 2012
What shall I do with this extra day?
Shall I use it to party or use it to pray?
Perhaps to St Patrick, St Bridget and Co.
In that far away nunnery long, long ago.
In those days of yore a nun could be married
And though fellas passed, few of them tarried.
The nuns in the fields would be bent to their tasks
But the lads thought them all far too holy to ask.
St Pat’s in the garden a-clearing the snakes Though a night on the poteen has given him shakes When St Bridget comes out with a cup in her hand And a look in her eye any man’d understand.
“I’ve been thinking”, she says as she hands him his drink
“My nuns ask the men – well what do you think?”
Now Pat nearly fainted, dropping his rake,
Like a man who’d been bit on the bum by a snake,
“Bejasus,” he cried, “What, a girl ask a man?
That’s against all God’s law, his purpose and plan.”
Brave words but his heart was sinking like stone
For he knew St. Bridget had her teeth in this bone.
His head was aching, his tongue felt like a wig
And the snakes in his head were dancing a jig
For he knew for a fact that when she had that look
You could chuck out the winder bell, candle and book.
He started to frame a holy retort
Filled with scriptural wisdom logic and thought
But St B. was ready and she cut him short:
“Well it wouldn’t have to be every day”, she says.
1
So then it began, and from morning to night
They bargained and bargained with all of their might
But St B. had an ace up her sleeve you see
She made Patrick wait and wait and wait for his tea.
Well, he gave in in the end and he wrote to the Pope And the nunnery rang to a message of hope:
On the 29th day of February clear
They could all ask the men in any leap year.
Pat went on his way and he never came back
But the nuns never had their chance to attack
For the very next year the new celibacy rules
Came down from the Vatican to make them look fools.
St Bridget of course was royally pissed
She spread it about that this day should exist
So though her dear nuns were in a terrible bind
Their sacrifice benefited all womankind.
She herself led a life of exemplary prayer
And she’ll be up in heaven, if it's really there.
While Patrick went off snake-catching like stink
And from then to his death he never touched drink.
“Many of us who learnt lessons of inadequacy early in life are unprepared to live with potential, constantly undermining ourselves” - it’s heartbreaking to see the damage such lessons can cause. Kindness and compassion for ourselves is a good place to start the repair process, as well as building our belief that we are enough (and more…), despite what the stories in our heads might tell us. And believing that, like all stories, they can be rewritten…
Dear Anne, thank you, kindness and compassion for ourselves as a good place to start to repair and build a sense of self independent of childhood and subsequent unkindnesses and cruelties is very resonant for me now, though rather late on in life. That was good to be reminded, xxoo
I'm a latecomer to that process myself, Aud... The phrase “unremembered wings” from the lines below by Pablo Neruda is a beautiful description for me of our inner beauty and worth: “…And something ignited in my soul / fever or unremembered wings / and I went my own way, / deciphering / that burning fire.”
Lovely. "That burning" reminded me of the Celtic "fire in the head" description of highly spirit-engaged people.
"unremembered wings", how lovely, thank you so very much xxoo
Many thanks for reminding me about my wings! Almost forgot about them. 🪽🪽
Cleaning, whether dishes or clothes, brings me into the present moment and helps remove the fear and pain caused by a cruel world. Walking outside does as well There is something about moving g the body the quiets the worrying mind.
While cleaning is never "first on my list" there is something comforting about the repetitive nature of the task. It begs the mind to wander... don't you think?
And walking outdoors, YES! It does quiet a worrying mind!
I used to have the task of shelling shrimp when I came on shift at a luxury restaurant. Inevitably my dreams would return during that time!
If I am by the sea I immerse myself first thing in the morning, this is a baptism in itself. But my city life practice is to read several pages of a book I want absorb and remember. I underline phrases or sentences I love and then I write them out by hand in a journal. Honouring words and wisdom in this way nourishes my spirit.
I resonate to each word here. Thank you.
Imagining, -while under the radiotherapy machine, a 'thin space.' I had cancer treatment recently. It helped me transform and use the time to gather my loved ones in- I felt so close to them all. Also, I felt connected to other unknown, worried souls, who had undergone a time underneath the machine- with all the emotions the experience brings. I'm not sure what I define as prayer. However, I do know that I felt a very strong connection to my Catholic roots, and the gentle, clicking noise of my mothers and grandmother's rosary beads in our beautiful, busy church during mass.
I believe in times of deep illness, the only prayer can be breath. I love how you could hear the clicking as that of rosary beads. I am not Catholic but many friends are and find the ritual comforting.
Dia daoibh ó Dublin town on St Patrick's Weekend. 🇮🇪 I wrote this poem this week, it could be a response to your posed question, Pádraig. See what you or your readers think...
https://open.substack.com/pub/theseainme/p/on-leaving-the-park?utm_source=share&utm_medium=android&r=46rss
divine twinship--yes
Grounded in Grace.
Gratitude, love and forgiveness rule the day!
Centering prayer starts the day to help with these intentions.
Exorcised by tears.
They release the toxins of body, mind and spirit.
I think the whole world needs a good cry right about now!
Patrick, thanks so much for this post. I don't think I would have been a poet or novelist if I weren't Irish. In fact, at 74, I'm in the process of getting my Irish citizenship because my grandfather was born there. So that heritage grounds me, but what really grounds me is poetry and just how it can transform one. Yesterday I posted a piece on my friend Naomi Shihab Nye's poem, "Kindness"--a poem that, in these troubled times, everyone should read it at least once a week. In this post, I also recount my encounter with Jane Goodall and explain how meeting Goodall and reading Naomi's poem inspire and ground me in similar ways, because of their hopeful visions of humanity.
https://johnsonp.substack.com/p/his-life-by-naomi-shihab-nye
Peter, yes, I love Jane Goodall. How wonderful that you met her, and that Naomi Shihab Nye is a friend of yours! "Kindness" is one of my all time favorite poems. Poetry is transforming.
Wendell Berry's Poem, "How to be a Poet" is written out on a chalk board in my studio. When my chest feels tight I might remember to read it out loud, and it grounds me.
Absolutely, two wonderful human beings. Dear to me too. Thank you.
Yes, enjoy your day. This is the only day I feel bad for vegetarians.
What a sweet note. Thanks so much for sending it.
Yes poetry grounds me & gives me wings.
Yes, it always seems when things looks most bleak that poetry arrives like some strange scared animal.
The act that grounds me most is cooking for people. Cooking always nurtures my soul and the best is in the summertime or fall when I can walk out into my garden and harvest this or that, which I have tended to, to be added to the pot. It connects all who share in the meal to the earth and to each other.
Early on I learned that I could be competent at home and in coursework, but not in relationships with peers. This stuck with me into adulthood as I struggled to find myself and maintain that sense of structure when with others. I often turned to music, playing my favorite “poems” set to music over and over again. They spoke for me.
Thank you, Pádraig, for illuminating the story of St. Patrick’s life, and for the query… my practical practices are movement- walks, runs, dancing, swimming, stretching my body- from which I find contemplation, for my mind as well as my body- and I no longer choose to buy into negative messages and narratives as they try themselves on in my mind (thank you, years and lessons lived)—happy to be here to great each day- try to make a difference, connect with family and friends, walk into a new season.
Contemplative prayer and a contemplative walk in nature grounds me in these troubled times.
I try to get outside, and then once outside to pay attention to it!
Sometimes I go outside and bring my worries along. I need to stop that!!
I walk along a canal. Sometimes there is a heron perched on A log.
He/she brings me to my senses.
That and petting dogs that their humans bring for walks along the canal. Petting an animal is so calming.
Thank you for your enlightening post, Pádraig... The process that grounds me in terrible times is my daily practice of chanting Sanskrit hymns, & sitting meditation, for about an hour each day. Whether in morning & evening sessions, or all at once, returning to the same prayers & practices keeps me sailing steadily forward on my spiritual journey. I've chosen all the chants myself, to Ganesh, Lakshmi, Saraswati & Shiva~ which I see as aspects of one God~ so it's a very personalized practice of honoring divinity, which often takes me from despondency to a realm of calm.
Dancing keeps my mind focused on the movement and the music with no room for other concerns of the world. Mosaic art, especially when made in community, also has saved me in past troubled times.
Moving to a new place helped to also move away from how I thought about and described myself. Return to my hometown can set my mind back to an old way of self-regard. I look forward to reading how others exorcise their old tropes while remaining in place.
Fascinating - do the saints of a country speak about the people or vice versa? My own perhaps heretical thoughts attached -
THAT EXTRA DAY FEB 29TH 2012
What shall I do with this extra day?
Shall I use it to party or use it to pray?
Perhaps to St Patrick, St Bridget and Co.
In that far away nunnery long, long ago.
In those days of yore a nun could be married
And though fellas passed, few of them tarried.
The nuns in the fields would be bent to their tasks
But the lads thought them all far too holy to ask.
St Pat’s in the garden a-clearing the snakes Though a night on the poteen has given him shakes When St Bridget comes out with a cup in her hand And a look in her eye any man’d understand.
“I’ve been thinking”, she says as she hands him his drink
“My nuns ask the men – well what do you think?”
Now Pat nearly fainted, dropping his rake,
Like a man who’d been bit on the bum by a snake,
“Bejasus,” he cried, “What, a girl ask a man?
That’s against all God’s law, his purpose and plan.”
Brave words but his heart was sinking like stone
For he knew St. Bridget had her teeth in this bone.
His head was aching, his tongue felt like a wig
And the snakes in his head were dancing a jig
For he knew for a fact that when she had that look
You could chuck out the winder bell, candle and book.
He started to frame a holy retort
Filled with scriptural wisdom logic and thought
But St B. was ready and she cut him short:
“Well it wouldn’t have to be every day”, she says.
1
So then it began, and from morning to night
They bargained and bargained with all of their might
But St B. had an ace up her sleeve you see
She made Patrick wait and wait and wait for his tea.
Well, he gave in in the end and he wrote to the Pope And the nunnery rang to a message of hope:
On the 29th day of February clear
They could all ask the men in any leap year.
Pat went on his way and he never came back
But the nuns never had their chance to attack
For the very next year the new celibacy rules
Came down from the Vatican to make them look fools.
St Bridget of course was royally pissed
She spread it about that this day should exist
So though her dear nuns were in a terrible bind
Their sacrifice benefited all womankind.
She herself led a life of exemplary prayer
And she’ll be up in heaven, if it's really there.
While Patrick went off snake-catching like stink
And from then to his death he never touched drink.
I look up from my desk and the sun has gone down
It is quiet as a nunnery all over the town
Outside of the window the moon’s shining bright
When I look at the clock it’s ten past midnight.
My plans for this day have vanished like smoke
In a shaggy dog story with barely a joke;
My masterly poem of laughter and tears
Will just have to wait for another four years.
20 Feb. 2012
2
I am surprised to see the depth of the question
What practical processes ground you in terrible times?
Somehow I haven’t thought of these processes linked to practicality. Now I am relating practical to practice. 🙏🏽
For the past year and a half I have been in conflict with myself. My body has been attacking itself because of stress.
Here is a list of my practices. It may sound somewhat common place. It works better than any medicine though.
Meditation
Breathings consciously on and off the cushion
Gratitude
Poetry (reading and sometimes drafting my own)
Exercise Yoga Walking Biking
Like minded people and/or challenging people
Nature and practicing all the above.
I really like the idea of exorcising my stress, my failing stories. I’m not there yet.
I guess
Practice
Practice
Practice is the only tool