ON PILGRIMAGE
Judi Taylor

I had a wonderful childhood, plain and simple, two sisters and four brothers, a mum and dad who cared for us beautifully, an extended family who doted on us, handmade clothes, clean shoes, wholesome food, an orderly life, with lots of outdoors. It was a strict Irish Catholic family—daily rosary, no meat on Fridays, lolly jars in Lent, Corpus Christi processions at St Patrick’s College at Manly, the local parish school with my brothers and sisters. Ours was a very Catholic world.

And great memories of running on the rocks at Fairlight, light-footed, free; sunshine, the sea. Climbing the tree at home in Seaforth: up high seeing for miles or down lower hanging upside down by my knees, arms swinging. I can still remember the feeling of these times and similar ones: a great sense of happiness, fullness, of endless possibility, harmony, the perfection of everything—these are the words I would use now.

These have become foundational moments, alerting me to what is possible and acting as a reference point even into my adult life.

Then school presented me with a version of life and religion which was narrowly restrictive and based on obligation and fear. So even as a child I was aware of disappointment with some of those who embodied my religion for me. That set up a great confusion, which later became anger at hypocrisy and small-minded attitudes, and, leaving school, I left the church.

I just could not feel at home although it was the spiritual home of my family for many generations. In recent times I have got in touch with the regret and sense of arrogance I felt at breaking that link and with the relief I have experienced since in finding a way to belong.

Moving on to my days at uni, I met Paul while I was studying social work. We used to sit in the library near each other and had a sort of an awareness of each other until one Friday evening at a reading of King Lear, he was France and I was Cordelia, there was lots of red wine and someone got stabbed with a letter opener. And all the rest is history. We have just celebrated the thirtieth anniversary of our connubials as Kath and Kim would say.

We have not always been on the same path. And that can be painful, not knowing where one is being led, trusting in the other and their judgment even when it seems to divide. There have been difficult moments and wonderful moments. The births of our three children were amazing times, the last two were born at home among much joy and beauty and hard work and facing fears.

The birth of my first child was a wakeup call. I wanted to know how this all fitted together and to acknowledge the giver of life who had so graced us. From there my journey has been very focused on seeking God and meaning in many places. First in Eastern schools of meditation, and then a school devoted to self transformation and sacred movement in the tradition of the Sufis and others. These were places of great grace where I met good people and encountered truths that continue to inform my life.

The time of coming home began with the discovery of meditation in the Christian tradition, about ten years ago now. A friend gave me some taped talks of Laurence Freeman, a Benedictine monk, speaking about this way of prayer. I immediately experienced an enormous sense of connection and joy to find such love and intelligence, such wisdom and compassion. I remain eternally grateful for the nudge of the Spirit that alerted me to what this held for me.

Since then, as a natural outpouring of gratitude and a wish to share this pearl with others, I have been involved in running weekly meditation groups in the parish and at the Mulawa Women’s Prison, and working to support the meditation community here and abroad.

Meditation we are told, is as natural to the spirit as breathing is to the body. And, the medieval mystic Meister Eckhardt tells us, there is nothing so much like God as silence. I experience God as both personal and universal, and in being with God in this way of prayer I am taken out of myself, into union/harmony with all, with the All, with the energy that created and continues to create the universe, the energy of love. Bede Griffiths says that meditative prayer is entering into the stream of love that flows between the Father and the Son and is the Holy Spirit.

I don’t really understand this, but more and more I become aware of the reality of this enormous love for me and for us all in the details of daily life—in a word of concern from one of my children, or a ‘Thanks Mum’ on the shopping list, or an out of the blue text message ‘hoping u r having a gd day’, or feeling the winter sun warm my shoulders. We all have such moments when we know we are loved.

In the silence of meditation there is a sense of participation in the mystery, a quiet transformation happening at the level of our being. We may find ourselves changed and becoming more fully alive. Meditation is such a simple experience and yet, mysteriously, profound things happen for people.

Naturally, organically, out of my gratitude at how I was listened to and supported by so many on my journey comes a desire to be likewise for others. After four years of formation as a spiritual director, I now have the great privilege of accompanying others as they journey and seek God. This is an intimate way of the heart, and in the wondrous design that points to the divine there is often much for both of us in what is spoken of.

It is a subtle work of noticing promptings or stirrings which can be missed in the busyness, an ever-deeper listening within ourselves to where we are called, what draws us as we live out our lives. I feel much resonance with Miriam Rose Ungunmerr, who speaks of the way of dadirri that the Aboriginal people have followed for thousands of years as they live with nature’s quietness: a deep inner listening and quiet, still awareness.

At the risk of sounding over-pious, my life is richer with Jesus, reading the gospels, speaking at times to him and especially just being aware of his presence. Not that I can look at Jesus full on and say with certainty ‘This is where you are in my life’. It’s more like a sideways glance and a wondering ‘Is this you? Who are you? Are these people a sign of your presence to me? Why do I feel different, like something has moved in me?’

All this is not easy to speak of, there is a sense of delicacy and vulnerability at bringing these ponderings out into the light. While I was wondering whether to speak of all this, a friend showed me a Velasquez painting of the scullery maid at Emmaus. Immediately I saw in her a mirror of my own barely spoken fascination for and attraction to the person of Jesus. And so I share this with you.
I laugh at the way life in the family keeps me grounded, any illusion of progress towards a more permanent state of equanimity is soon dashed with the next flareup that is a constant possibility. As is a moment of exquisite tenderness, or a comment of stunning insight.

There are so many things I am grateful for, that bring life in the search for harmony and right relationship. But, having said all this, words ultimately fail us in the face of the mystery, which is probably why silence and listening and noticing have so much appeal.

Let me end with a short Buddhist prayer: ‘May there be peace on earth, and let it begin in me’.

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ON PILGRIMAGE Judi Taylor

ON PILGRIMAGE
Judi Taylor