Carmen Acevedo Butcher shares a contemplative practice that allows her to accept “just this”:
My name, Carmen, means song or poem, which is kind of perfect. I’ve found that I can always sing, especially when things are difficult. We tend to think there are people who can sing, and then there are the rest of us, who probably shouldn’t. But we can bring singing into our everyday lives as a contemplative practice. It creates these wonderful vibrations in our bodies and allows emotions and energies to move through us.
We don’t need to know a song by heart. Even if we just remember a favorite verse or a line, we can make it our own. It doesn’t have to be a hymn or a song that someone else recommends. We just need to find something that echoes with our hearts. It could be a line from Cole Arthur Riley or a Mary Oliver poem. We might go to Scripture to find a line like “Be still and know” (Psalm 46:10), or something in the Gospels. I like to jot the words down on a little note card and carry them around with me. Once we have our words, we can just start reading them, saying them, living with them, and letting a song come from there. We can make whatever kind of chant we want with them. For when we steep in words mindfully and repetitively, often a tune emerges spontaneously over time.
Acevedo Butcher encourages us to begin contemplative practice wherever we are in our lives:
I don’t think we wait until we feel like we’re ready to do it. We don’t have to wait until we’re feeling good. We start even if we’re tired. We start even in the middle of the mess. We start in the middle of a good day or in the middle of a difficult one. It doesn’t matter. We start now. If we want to, we just start.
If we wait to start singing—or any kind of contemplative practice—until we feel peaceful or worthy, we’ll be waiting a very long time. Sometimes, we do a practice, and if we don’t feel peaceful or holy immediately, we think we’ve failed or are doing it wrong. But that’s not the point. The point is that we do them like breathing, just in and out, over and over again. Fidelity to the practice brings about a healing alchemical effect.
Sometimes I’ll begin to sing, “Be still and know that I am God,” and at the same time I’m thinking, “I’m so stressed out today.” It turns into a little dialogue with God, “Why can’t I be stiller and know that you are?” All these thoughts go around, and this practice—this repetition of “Be still and know I am God”—holds the space of stillness and silence. We can pause and “Be still” enough to remember that we are made in God’s image, and we can honor our own voice, God’s voice within us. We don’t have to wait for a special key. The key is already within us.
Reference:
Adapted from Carmen Acevedo Butcher with Mike Petrow, “Taking the Practice Out of the Monastery,” Essentials of Engaged Contemplation, Trimester 1, mod. 3 (Center for Action and Contemplation, 2025). Unavailable.
Image Credit and inspiration: Patrick Hendry, untitled (detail), 2015, photo, Unsplash. Click here to enlarge image. A person stands in a contemplative “just this” moment with the night sky.
Story from Our Community:
Today’s meditation on Visio Divina led me look more closely at Corita Kent’s serigraph artwork, “Spring from Winter,” on my office wall. I noted for the first time a small, heart shape in the center of the flower, reminding me that in the “winter” of my life, my heart is protected in this flower’s center. Since Corita’s art often looks more like “splash” than details, I’m reminded not to become too engrossed in the minute-by-minute drama in the daily news, but to hold a gentler, more trusting stance like that of Julian of Norwich: “All will be well, and all manner of things will be well.”
—Julie B.
