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Crump's Expressway

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A Spiritual Discipline is a practice, a regular activity that does our bodies, our minds, our souls good. In general we think we can do without spiritual disciplines until we find something missing in our lives. Then we get engaged like some CSI lab detective and find that the something missing is indirectly connected to the very disciplines we originally thought were nonessential. Skip nutrition and we don’t notice until later. Skip a physical workout and feel OK but how long does it take for muscles to get into the groove again? Skip a prayer of thanksgiving, scarf down a meal, get on back to the work routine, and what difference does it make? Thanksgiving is reserved for the holiday in November, right? I have noticed lately I can’t seem to scarf and savor enough blueberries. But something tells me (a yearning for a discipline?) that I should now be freezing some blueberries for the winter. They freeze like green peas. When the label on the last carton of store-bought blueberries reads, “Product of Canada,” I know that my supply of blueberries will soon be running out in North America for this summer. So, I’m storing up some now to save and savor and practice the art of being thankful for the bountiful harvest which was 2009 and which is life. Taking time to savor is being thankful altogether. See you in church where we remind ourselves of simple pleasures, of community gathered, of work to be done, of souls to be nourished. We’re the berries. And life is the bowl. Cottage Meetings ~~ Sign up. Get engaged with your church. This moment needs you. Walt Whitman ~~ This summer I’ve been re-reading Leaves of Grass by that great American and Unitarian poet. Let’s re-discover the poet later this summer and before we do, here’s an appetizer: “This is the city . . . and I am one of the citizens: Whatever interests the rest interests me . . . politics, churches, newspapers, schools, Benevolent societies, improvements, banks, tariffs, steamships, factories, markets, Stocks and stores and real estate and personal estate. They who piddle and patter here in collars and tailed coats . . . I am aware who they are . . . and that they are not worms or fleas, I acknowledge the duplicates of myself under all the scrape-lipped and pipe-legged concealments. The weakest and shallowest is deathless with me, What I do and say the same waits for them, Every thought that flounders in me the same flounders in them.”