Last week the Refuge at La Foret hosted a Sacred Earth, Sacred Soul retreat led by Celtic theologian, John Philip Newell.
Near La Foret’s historic chapel a tree grows in a bending twist, followed by a vertical shoot without branches on her west side. A sister tree bows between her eastern limbs. I first noticed them as we exited the chapel in grounded silence following a contemplative service on Friday evening. The chapel gates led us toward the sun setting in the west across a valley framing Pikes Peak. Though we did not yet know one another, the group wordlessly paused in unison to witness the earth’s sacred story, a collective exhale.
While soaking it all in I went to rest between the sister trees. I wonder why they grew this way; both uniquely distinct, and interconnected in relationship. As I sat down I noticed the forest floor was soft. I curiously reached down through the layers of pine needles. How many cycles of seasons created the cushioned depth? Inches down I found cool damp soil and its fertile smell swept up into the cool air laced with pine.
Like each of us, these trees have a story. We come from a frenetic world molded by the commodification of time, bodies, material, and matter. Aches of separation from divine light compel us to twist and bend. Here on the forest floor, I find rest. Rest brings release. I feel a wave of grief for places in my life that seem fragmented.
I am generally propelled to sacred imagination, and I notice I have arrived weary of the labor of creation that I normally love and my internal refrain of “it does not have to be this way.” In the rest, I am weighing the question, “What happens if I stop imagining deeper connection and intention? Will that stop the ways it compounds in lament? I am not meant to always be heartbroken.” Momentarily, a bumblebee lands on my knee before a wobbling levitation to a nearby flower. My friend Kate loves bumblebees. Their ability to fly cannot be explained by science. They are living examples of sacred imagination.
As we gathered that evening and began to get to know one another in small groups each of us distilled what brought us there to a one word yearning. In turn, I stood to state “I am yearning for hope.”
Throughout the weekend John Philip artfully told stories of three Celtic thinkers. One was Alexander John Scott, who challenged theologies of original sin. Rather, he professed a belief in the divine union with God dwelling as a light in each of us. To Scott, to be made of God was to be made of the capacity to dream in new ways. As I heard this I felt the internal echo of my refrain, “it doesn’t have to be this way.” The belief in our union with God led him to refuse to sign the Westminster Confession in 1647 and lead a life of countercultural exile. He described true union as one that differentiates, unbinds, and delights in uniqueness like the interplay of ecosystems in the natural world. Scott claimed “creation is a transparency through which the light of God can be seen.”
Later I returned to my two trees and the breath and depth of our silences compounded. A new friend and I marveled at how the stretches of silence magnified our awareness, and the vibrancy of our connections with everything around us. As we collectively entered the chapel in silence on the second day the ritual felt like a living art piece of shared praise. We again exited to the amplification of twilight shadows tracing over pine needles, the sigh of the wind in the trees, and the gentle give of the forest floor under our feet. John Philip talked about the Earth as our sacred text. As time passed, awareness of our connection to each other, the Earth, and God within us grew.
There is a courage in our dreaming. Our sacred imagination is an overflow of the divine light at the core of each of us. We could call this overflow hope. It is the wholeness of creation unfolding in new life. What we pay attention to grows. The Refuge at La Foret is a brave space for hopeful people to imagine, co-create, and experience the world as it could be, together in transformational community.
As we prepared to leave on Sunday, each of us again distilled a gratitude into one word. In turn, I stood and said, “I am grateful for hope.”
Yes, wrestling with God can be exhausting- I'm so glad you are finding ways of renewing your spirit, and to me, your writing helps me to renew my spirit as well. I am grateful.