“The practice of paying attention really does take time….Reverence requires a certain pace. It requires willingness to take detours, even side trips, which are not part of the original plan.” Barbara Brown Taylor, An Altar in the World
Refreshed from a week of reading writers who illumine the sacred in the most commonplace, I was intent on an excursion with an eye for encounter. And so I grabbed my bag and stuffed a composition notebook, rollerball pen, reading glasses, and a copy of An Altar in the World for a day in DC. I moved with deliberate peace–fruit of time spent with the likes of Taylor, Lamott, Thurman, and De Waal. Somehow, their noticing reminded me to do the same.
As the Metro jostled, I sat in my seat re-reading favorite passages from Taylor’s book. Mothers with children, couples cuddling, and i-pod plugged teens moved around me, but Taylor transported me to a farm in Georgia where “you can see the souls in pebbles, ants, small mounds of moss, and the acorn on its way to becoming an oak tree.” Twenty minutes later when I disembarked from the train, I eagerly anticipated time alone wandering on “the mall.” I wanted to go the National Art Gallery. Sunshine cut through the cool air as I appreciated the rare freedom of traveling alone. Energy necessary for negotiating which way to go, or engaging in idle conversation was freed up to notice.
On the way to the Gallery, I stumbled onto an outdoor ice skating rink. Plunking down on the cold, stone bench which encircled the rink, I relished the role of observer. A mother and father over-eagerly encouraged their kindergarten-aged son. He gripped the rail, slowly sliding one skate forward and then another to the chorus of, “You are amazing! We never imagined you would do this well.” That kid is going to need a lot of therapy when he finds out he doesn’t get a trophy just for showing up for work. I snarkily mused.
Music blared “Nothing from nothing leaves nothing!” while a young man playfully danced in front of a beautiful and amused young woman. Will they have a baby some day and marvel at his first attempt at skating? I pondered. A large latino man with two barely-walking toddlers whipped his camera out to take a picture of them outside of the rink. Before he could snap the shot, his wife snapped at him, “I don’t want their picture here. They aren’t even skating.” Defeated, he put his camera away and both parents missed their little girl giggling and cocking her head in wonder at the skaters.
Finally, I tired of eavesdropping and walked over to the National Art Gallery. Initially it was my intention to see as much art as possible. But after a few minutes in the impressive rotunda, drinking in the floral display, my pace slowed to a wander. I decided to go “off road,” deeming the map in hand useless. I was inspired by Taylor’s reminder that “The practice of paying attention really does take time….Reverence requires a certain pace. It requires willingness to take detours, even side trips, which are not part of the original plan.”
Entering the room with 15th Century Florentine art, I was struck by the number of Madonnas. Raised Catholic, devotion to Mary comes naturally to me. However, recently I had not felt that familiar connection. Drifting slowly from one artist’s interpretation after another, Mary called to me. Lorenzo Monaco’s Madonna warily looked out at the world that waited to take her babe. Raphael’s “Alba Madonna” was sexy, earthy even in her blue-strapped sandals.
I sat down on the grey couch facing “The Mourning Madonna.” Pulling the notebook out of my purse I wrote, unacknowledged tears slowly surfacing. Something in her sadness touched my loneliness–a sense of loss in leaving my beloved husband so far away. I waited for an answer, for something she might say. Perhaps it was the embrace of a soft couch and recognition of sadness unknown that needed to be “heard.”
Even though people swirled around me, pressing through the exhibits, my steps were measured; as if I were at a private art show. Mary reminded me that this was a moment I would not live again. And so I took the time I often feel I don’t have, and gazed lovingly in the eyes of one who has known exaltation and sorrow. One artist’s rendering embodied Mary’s seeming knowledge of the torture the world had in store for her little boy. Other’s cast her eyes downward, emphasizing humility. Many renditions showed the babe clutching near her breast for life. She held and supported, but did not cling.
The most jarring painting of all was entitled, “The Crucifixion” by Luca Signorelli. Robed in black, collapsed in the arms of Mary Magdalene and the other women, Mary’s exhausted grief seared against the backdrop of her murdered son. I wanted to walk away from this painting, but forced myself to stay. Stomach churning, I wrote, “We are only vessels for the life, but theirs is a life of their own.” I had been fighting this truth, trying to control my newly-adult children, ignoring the futility in believing I could protect them from harm.
Walking with Mary from Annunciation, to manger, magi, and cross awakened in me seeds of awareness who’s time had come. Thankfully the pace of the past week had watered that fertile ground. Meandering through the gallery, taking time with no agenda, allowed an uncanny sense of holy sanctuary in the midst of many.
Clearly, an entire day set aside for the “practice of paying attention” is a luxury. Yet all of us can bring a heightened sense of awareness to one ordinary daily task–like folding laundry or walking the dog. What one thing would you like to do today with reverence? What inspiration awaits?



Well, I am slogging through a Clinical Pastoral Education application so that I can work for free in a hospital this summer. Can you tell I don’t have a great attitude about this? Anyway, my poor opinion of spending the summer as a volunteer chaplain-in-training is a bit mortifying to my dear, chaplain husband. In order to be accepted into a program, I am required to rehash lots of life’s adventures and glean what has been learned along the way. Since I am a bit sick of myself and my story, what should be intriguing, is not.

I bent down so the priest could lay her hands on each side of my face. “For what would you like me to pray?” She asked in a soft, soothing voice. “My back is killing me and I am just so stressed out. I’m exhausted.” I replied.