LITMIR.BIZ

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that meaning in our heart. My hope is that we will begin to see that heart as a multi-dimensional universe within us that is truly already the Divine Milieu. That we will begin to use the meaning all around us to wake up to what IS.

      My pragmatic desire is that we will look at places we set aside as holy. We will reconstruct our prayer life and the shape of our interior world. We will recognize the impact things have on us and discriminate toward health. In addition, that ultimately we will WAKE UP to the presence of God in us.

      Our journey in this book will be more like an amble or a wandering. We will hop from pillar to post looking for meaning and attempting to infuse things with meaning. We will look at our practices and the practices of those from our shared human past. We will begin to notice that there is a hidden depth to how we live—one that reveals we live in layers or dimensions, not simple and flat lines.

      Whether the spaces of prayer are inside or outside they reveal and transform who we are and who we are becoming. Join me as we amble among the markers and choose to transform space and time by hallowing our prayer closet within. The prayer closet of our heart.

      Let us find the things that we have left as markers all through our lives and those markers that have been left by others in the life of the Church. Let us learn to read what they have to tell us about where we have been, where we are, and where we are going. Let us become changed into the very image and likeness of the One who has called us from the beginning of time and space. Let us also leave holy markers for all who come after.

      Chapter One

      Watering the gardens at the beginning and the end of the day has been an activity that has peppered my life from youth. It is relaxing. It also feeds me in ways other activities do not. It has been a cairn in my life since childhood. It has been a sacramental landscape for meeting God. It has taken me into my heart.

      When I am about the task of watering gardens, I am reaching back into my life and doing something that is self-soothing and connective. It integrates the disparate pieces of my life. It is wholesome for me.

      My life is a train of stories of watering gardens. I can remember watering gardens as far back as elementary school. In all of that practice, I have learned to be in God’s Presence as I water. The magnitude of repetition over the years has been a force capable of establishing union with God through this simple act.

      Some years I take to watering much more regularly than other years. It has partly to do with the gardens I plant and the needs they have for water-flow. It is also connected to the fact that some years are naturally wetter than others and require less garden tending from me—“the waterer.” Sometimes I simply water because I need to: it is good therapy.

      However often I water, I am reminded of the tending that needs to accompany all forms of life and growth. I am reminded how I am tended by the “Gardener of Souls.” Watering helps me conform to His image and likeness. Watering nourishes my heart-space. Watering is an activity that sacramentally transforms my life—when I am attentive to the process.

      One particular season had called me to the task of watering more often than in years past. That year I learned to love the routine for its calming affect in a new way: the sound of water, the greenery, and the repetition of a simple task. It soothed me and gave me peace. I learned a lot from the regularity of the task that year. I learned from mindfully practicing the art of watering.

      ***

      Stone Cairns

      I have piled stones,

      one on top of another,

      for decades now.

      Fingers

      slipping over rough

      granite -

      my heart

      is settled in

      simple tasks.

      I have piled

      stones of habit

      over the days

      of my journey.

      Praying is a stone.

      Watering herbs

      and gardens of flowers

      is another stone.

      Hymns and chants

      and acts of

      kindness are stones,

      too.

      My words

      have become stones

      I pile to settle

      my heart.

      Long ago,

      across the pond,

      in Scotland

      and on the isles of

      the Hebrides

      they piled stones

      to find the same

      simple way on earth.

      One pile marks

      a grave. Another marks

      a battle. Still another

      marks a place

      where prayers poured forth,

      where words pierced

      God and His

      heart and

      His universe.

      There is a rhythm

      to rock on rock,

      a sound

      that fills the

      heart with the comfort

      of familiar sound,

      familiar passage.

      I bake my bread

      and brew my soups

      because they are stones

      of comfort for

      this man’s heart.

      I water my gardens

      and read my books

      because they help me pile

      stone on stone.

      Listening,

      reflecting,

      encountering,

      wrestling

      each stone

      placed down firmly

      on another stone.

      These piles of stones

      have something to

      say about who I am

      and where I have been.

      These stones are my heart.

      ***

      The thing that most presented itself to me that particular year of watering, was what I learned from the praying mantises. They taught me the art of slowing. They showed me an image of watchfulness and waiting, of discrimination and patience. While watering, I was able to silence enough of my inner chatter to focus on my surroundings as the water flowed, saturated the earth, and beaded on the leaves and flowers. I watched the mantises on the rise. I became intensely aware of reality.

      The watering flushed praying mantises up and out of the cover of stalk and stem; onto walls, and branches, and posts. Had I not been paying attention, I would have missed them. I would have never seen what they had to teach.

      They climbed up trying to avoid the water I was adding to the garden. As they climbed, they would often spot a bug and settle in for the kill. Patiently they would wait for the “perfect” moment before striking. In their rising, nourishment presented itself. They would stop and dine. They watched

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