When I was in a difficult stretch a few years back, Joan of Arc became my guide and inspiration. I had the image you see here hanging on the door of my former office (now in my home office). I had a statue of her leading the battle charge on my office table (now in my living room). I have socks with her image on them. I have a t-shirt with her image and her famous statement: “I am not afraid; I was born for this.” And I have begun making my own mixed-media interpretations of her in a series I call Joan of Art. (See two images below)

Let us not forget how Joan was treated during her lifetime — accused of witchcraft, heresy, cross-dressing, and more, and eventually burned at the stake. Now the Church celebrates her as a hero and a saint. No matter how she was treated, no matter how many threats, she never wavered in what she believed was her calling. May Joan of Arc inspire us to live out our purpose on this earth, even when others doubt or challenge us. Even when our own Church doubts or challenges us. Who is God calling you to be? Do that, and do not be afraid.

Joan of Art 1 

Joan of Art 2

Mixed media images by Mary DeTurris Poust (do not reproduce)

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Thomas Merton puts it in another way: “Yet the fact remains that we are invited to forget ourselves on purpose, cast our awful solemnity to the winds and join in the general dance.”

We can all look out at our lives and see a threshold of some sort ahead, something we will be required to cross. We can either dance across it with curiosity and hope or be dragged across kicking and screaming.

I remember when my youngest child was born, only two months before I turned 43. I marveled that when Chiara was leaving for college, I’d be closing in on 61. It seemed so far away at the time, and yet here we are. She leaves in two days. Our nest will be empty, with all three of our babies having flown the coop. It is a monumental threshold, a curve of transformation we’ve seen coming for some time, a season that will transform me and my husband, Dennis, as parents, as a couple, as individuals.

Our dining room is piled high with dorm supplies as we make the final preparations for Chiara’s giant leap across her own threshold, knowing that anything we are facing with this coming change pales in comparison to what she is facing as a newly minted adult preparing to test out her wings. And maybe that is a key in facing up to change in life as it comes, remembering that we are not unique and often there are others around us who are facing even bigger thresholds. As always, our greatest strength comes when we view ourselves and others through the lens of compassion, gentleness and love.

As our daughter prepares to leave, we tell her we are confident she is going to be amazing at her new life in New York City, and at the same time we remind her that we are here and if it turns out that this particular choice was not the right one for her, she can come home, regroup, and start again. That is a truth and a grace each of us can remember when we set out on a curve of transformation that may or may not go as planned.

Where are you on the curve of your own transformation? What season of life is approaching? Can you join the cosmic dance with a sense of wonder and hope, even if it’s tinged with some fear or doubt?

We live at a time when there seem to be frightening thresholds all around us, not just in our own lives but in our Diocese, in our universal Church, in our country, and in our world. It can be overwhelming to imagine crossing all of them and winding up in some unknown future. The trick is not to try to cross someone else’s threshold but to focus on what is ours to do right here and right now. Look out ahead and focus not on the steep cliffs and dark valleys but on the color of the sky at dusk and the sound of bird calls in the morning. Be amazed at what is rather than fearful of what might be.

“… no despair of ours can alter the reality of things, or stain the joy of the cosmic dance which is always there,” writes Merton in ‘New Seeds of Contemplation.’ “Indeed, we are in the midst of it, and it is in the midst of us, for it beats in our very blood, whether we want it to or not.”

So dance, run, fly.

Mary DeTurris Poust will be leading the Stillpoint Retreat at Pyramid Life Center on Sept. 8-10. For information, click HERE.

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When I was in a difficult stretch a few years back, Joan of Arc became my guide and inspiration. I had the image you see here hanging on the door of my former office (now in my home office). I had a statue of her leading the battle charge on my office table (now in my living room). I have socks with her image on them. I have a t-shirt with her image and her famous statement: “I am not afraid; I was born for this.”

Let us not forget how Joan was treated during her lifetime — accused of witchcraft, heresy, cross-dressing, and more, and eventually burned at the stake. Now the Church celebrates her as a hero and a saint. No matter how she was treated, no matter how many threats, she never wavered in what she believed was her calling. May Joan of Arc inspire us to live out our purpose on this earth, even when others doubt or challenge us. Even when our own Church doubts or challenges us. Who is God calling you to be? Do that, and do not be afraid.

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Do we imagine it was so cut and dried for the men who went up that mountain? They were fishermen; they were married; they were carrying out the jobs to which they thought they would dedicate their lives. But Jesus calls them to something more, something radical, and they go, without question. Or so it seems. What conversations did the Apostles have—with their families, with themselves? It couldn’t have been easy.

Our call is not nearly so difficult, although at times it can feel that way. Sometimes even the smallest stretch beyond our normal reach makes us anxious and afraid. But Jesus is not asking us to give up our jobs or our families (at least not in most cases); he’s simply asking us to give more, and therein lies the fear factor. We don’t have to give up everything we know. We “just” have to put down our internal baggage and pick up the yoke of Jesus. It’s not as easy as it sounds, but we know from the Twelve that it is the only way that will set us free.

Mary DeTurris Poust, “Fear Factor,” from the January 2022 issue of Give Us This Day, www.giveusthisday.org (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2021). Used with permission.

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I’m guessing what many of us are feeling these days runs somewhat parallel to what the early disciples were feeling in the days after Jesus’ crucifixion and even after resurrection, when enemies were lurking around every corner, and believers locked themselves away, afraid that they might meet a similar end on a cross. The joy of the resurrection was tinged with the fear of “What if…” What if I’m next? What if the voices of fear are right? What if I’m not brave enough?

The reality is that none of us will get through this life on a wave of joy. Pain works its way into our lives again and again, often when we least expect it. How many of us had big events on the horizon as the coronavirus hit — weddings and graduations, anniversary trips and study abroad, new homes and new babies? Suddenly those lifetime highlights were plunged into shadowy uncertainty. To be sure, the babies would arrive just the same and the graduations would happen sans pomp and circumstance, but none of it was as planned or expected.

The crux of all of this is not that there is pain, but what do we do with the pain. Even as I write this column—pain-free compared to the many who are suffering—I feel myself sinking and there is a certain comfort there. To feel sorry for myself, to allow myself to follow the paths of doom my mind creates, has a certain attraction. It gives me an excuse to wallow, to skip the walk or prayer time, to eat comfort food that’s not good for me, to scroll mindlessly through social media. Because, poor me, poor us.

In his book “Man’s Search for Meaning,” Viktor Frankl, writing about the loss and trauma inflicted on him in the concentration camp, said: “Between stimulus and response there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom.”

It is a reminder that there is power in the way we choose to respond to the pains — and the joys — that come into our lives. If we are swept away with every happiness or plunged into the depths with every sorrow, then we will live a life of seesawing suffering and bliss. As a result, we will never know true joy, because true joy lies in being with whatever is in front of us at the moment and staying true to our center. That doesn’t mean we don’t hurt or get afraid or miss people or want to hide ourselves away and eat Doritos and watch mindless TV every once in a while when things get bad. What it does mean is that we don’t stay there long.

If we make sure we retreat to prayer every single day without fail, even for just a few minutes, we can stop the seesawing. What if we turned to God every time we turned to our phone or to that unhealthy snack? What if we allowed God to fill the void? I’m going to take my own advice, and I hope you’ll join me. I have a feeling if we both stick with this plan, the fear will dissipate even if the pain does not. Choose joy.

This column originally appeared in the April 22, 2020, issue of Catholic New York.

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As my youngest heads to high school this year, I look back and wonder what it is about September that has such a pull on me. I’ll be the first to tell you that if I had to go back in time to any part of my life, it would not be to high school or before. I’d go back to college in a heartbeat. That is where I came into my own, where I felt air under my wings and an opening up of everything that seemed closed before. Memories of books devoured, discussions had, even of the all-nighters required to finish a paper or read one more Shakespeare play bring a rush of happiness. I think it has to do with the accomplishment of taking on a difficult task and seeing it through. I like a challenge, although these days it takes all my effort to try to learn and retain something new. I expect myself—mentally and physically—to be like my 20-something self, but she’s so far in my rearview mirror I can’t even see a faint glimmer. And I think that’s precisely what has freed me to finally let go and let God.

Case in point: I arrived early to a particularly difficult yoga class recently. Over the course of 75 minutes, I fell over in balancing poses, cramped up in leg lifts and generally bobbled around, laughing at myself as I did, and cracking wise with the teacher—a far cry from the way I would have reacted all those years ago, when the drive to do things perfectly often overrode the joy of simply doing. But age flips that outlook on its head.

During the class, as I made a comment about my inability to do something, my teacher said, “Why would you want to do this perfectly? What would you learn from that? I want you to struggle. I want you to fail.” Ah, that’s the part we don’t always remember, no matter what our age. We want to get better at things but we don’t always want to struggle to get there. We want to find a place of ease—where we reach contentment, acceptance—but we fool ourselves into thinking the way to ease is easy. It’s anything but. Ease doesn’t mean no suffering, no mistakes, no bobbling. It means experiencing all those things and still maintaining inner peace, still learning and growing.

While it would seem that reaching that difficult apex would be something that happens on the outside—healthy food, lots of exercise, stimulating books—it really has to happen from the inside out. It’s only when we stop doing that we figure out what we’re really meant to do, who we’re meant to be. And that requires the thing that looks the easiest from outside but is by far the hardest part of this journey: sitting in silence, listening for the still, small voice that urges us forward to uncover our true self and live up to the potential God planted in each one of us.

A blank slate and a rainbow of options will become a muddled mess if we don’t ground ourselves in truth and beauty and love, and all of those things require us to stop moving and spinning and achieving, and to simply be. Be in God’s presence. Be in our own company. Be here (wherever here is) now.

P.S. In that photo above, that’s me all the way on the left standing on the wall and holding myself up with one arm. #warrior

This column originally appeared in the Sept. 11, 2019, issue of Catholic New York.

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That quote struck a chord and affirmed what I’ve been feeling as I head into this new stage of life. I turned 57 yesterday, and I can tell you that I believe, God willing, I will be able to say the same as Patti when I reach 72. I believe my most important work is ahead of me. I am talking about in addition to THE most important work of mother and wife, which would be enough if that was my only work in this life.

Still, 57 feels amazing, feels like a beginning. On the morning of my birthday, Chiara, 14, asked if I felt any different, and I responded, without hesitation, “Yes!” Which would not be my typical response, but I could feel it coming, building as this new age approached. I feel entitled to my life, whatever it may look like going forward, and not just any life but life as I am meant to live it — exactly as I am, with no apologies for who I am. And that, my friends, is the moment I have been waiting for my whole life.

So, yes, I feel fierce and fearless at 57. But what does that mean? It’s more than the words suggest. Fierce implies potential anger, but this kind of fierce is not about anger. Passion yes, anger no. This new feeling of fierceness is about knowing who I am, what I stand for, and where I will or will not go spiritually, emotionally, physically simply because someone or something else demands it of me. I will protect the True Self God gave me and follow that course and no one else’s. Fierce.

Now what about “fearless”? Can anyone really be fearless? This isn’t about never being afraid or never worrying. There’s a great quote from Nelson Mandela that sums it up: “I learned that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear.”

That’s what I’m talking about. Feel the fear and do it anyway. Try that job that scares you, find a way to adapt or leave a job that crushes your soul, take that class you’ve been wanting to take for years, reconnect on a deeper level with your spouse or a child, book that flight to the place you dream of visiting, go on a retreat and spend time in complete silence and discover who you are.

Really, I think silence is key to reaching this place on the path. We have to sit in silence, sometimes uncomfortable silence, to hear the Still, Small Voice that will tell us where we need to go, who we are meant to be. I know your life is busy and a retreat seems impossible. Not so. Find a way. Even if it’s only for one day. Go somewhere, maybe even a tent pitched at a quiet campsite, and unplug your phone and just be. And when you just be, and you don’t feel the need to say what you think you need to say or do what you think the world expects you to do; you will find bliss, you fill find Spirit, you will find your True Self.

And when you find your True Self, the person God created you to be, you will feel fierce and fearless because you will know you have a power within you that is unstoppable. That’s not to say life won’t throw you a curve and try to crush you again; it will. But with this new knowledge, this new confidence, this new interior silence, you will face whatever comes and know you will survive, maybe even thrive.

I have another quote hanging in my office, a favorite from St. Joan of Arc — talk about fierce and fearless — and it says: “I am not afraid. I was born to do this.” Find what you were born to do, and do not be afraid. Fierce and fearless feels fabulous. Don’t tell the younger folks, but old age is where it’s at. It’s where all the wisdom is hiding. We just need to dig around and grab it.

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