It seems that once we make the space for darkness, and open ourselves to light, it will illuminate our way.
Take my Artists' Way group for example. Today was a sharing circle of life stories, centering mainly on family struggle. Mothers at all stages of the process expressed their struggles-- their sadness and pain. We joined our stories with each others'--- the pieces of each life added to the quilt of connection. This was our art in a sacred space.
Take my meeting with a marriage and family counselor, for example. It has been over six months since our last meeting, and this time we came in with a different intention and energy. We both wanted to heal our family this time. As I listened to my husband, I did not feel the need to tell my own story. I saw my husbands' emotion and pain, and I stepped back and made the space. I did not try to shove in my point of view, but simply held the space for him to share. A space for healing opened, and I had the inner sense that everything would be ok. Our next meeting will be between him and our 7 year old daughter, and I will hold the space for healing their relationship.
Take my time with my husband's family. for example. The new intention of opening my heart to this extended family includes the pain. Tonight I heard the news that a family member almost died from an aneurysm and is in the ICU. It has been only a few years since this same woman lost her daughter in a car accident. There is the hardship others face-- cancer, health concerns, chemotherapy, premature infant loss-- and the tensions that divide us from some within that fold. But I am opening my heart to hold them all with love, and I feel the beginnings of healing strength.
Through all this, I pray:
Make me a channel of your peace. Where there is despair, let me bring hope. Where there is darkness let me bring your light. And where there is sadness, every joy.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Friday, February 24, 2012
A Spiritual Practice
Practice is every moment, and real life is the hardest practice of all. The cushion is the easy part, the part I can fall into with joy and full release. I have been steadily practicing on the cushion--morning and night for 30 minutes-- for the past 4 or 5 weeks. Before that, less consistently for the past year: a week on, a week off; almost every wednesday at work; a few day-longs; one five day retreat. Over time, I have experienced changes in myself: emotional balance, peace of heart, a rise of spirit and an open mind. The ability to sit with suffering--even when it appears as judgment and blame, even when it is directed as anger at me.
About 4 or 5 weeks ago, I hit a stumbling block. At the time, it felt like a low point, as old wounds surfaced. But perhaps it was more of a turning point-- a point where I recognized that I was re-enacting past trauma in my present relationship and that I had to make a change, that I had to embrace the broken parts of myself if I was ever going to heal. In a moment of deep confusion and sadness I called a minister-- a spiritual leader and a friend who I had begun to build trust in over the past few months. In that initial phone conversation, he told me to continue (or in my case- return to) my spiritual practice. This reminder seemed to ring like a bell of mindfulness, calling me back to the present. And so I committed to rising at 6AM every day to meditate, and I have continued ever since.
Yes, it's the cushion. But more than this it's the moments- the transformative ones when the practice of being present carries into my every day life. It is the moments when the conversations get difficult. When the finger is pointed at me, and it's hard to see where the other person ends and I begin. The moments when I could forget who I am. But like a woman in labor, I breathe through every contraction. And I have to remember where I begin--not only for myself, but also for the other. For the other who needs me to see his sadness and pain, even as it is expressed as anger. For the other who is struggling to connect, even as I feel the need to run and hide. I sit with it, closing my eyes at times to connect with the inner source of wisdom (the words- continue your practice- and the presence of love from within keeps me whole). And I echo back what I have heard to the other, the longing for care and connection beneath his judgment. The other tells me he is heard.
This was my practice tonight with my husband. And it was hard (so by the time I hit the cushion, that felt like bliss!). But afterwards, I did not feel shattered by an argument-- but instead incredibly light and connected.
My spiritual mentor has also said these words: marriage is a spiritual practice. It is a damn hard one for me sometimes. But I will continue, in partnership...returning to the cushion and the conversation, returning to the work of relationship, returning to the spiritual practice of our lives.
About 4 or 5 weeks ago, I hit a stumbling block. At the time, it felt like a low point, as old wounds surfaced. But perhaps it was more of a turning point-- a point where I recognized that I was re-enacting past trauma in my present relationship and that I had to make a change, that I had to embrace the broken parts of myself if I was ever going to heal. In a moment of deep confusion and sadness I called a minister-- a spiritual leader and a friend who I had begun to build trust in over the past few months. In that initial phone conversation, he told me to continue (or in my case- return to) my spiritual practice. This reminder seemed to ring like a bell of mindfulness, calling me back to the present. And so I committed to rising at 6AM every day to meditate, and I have continued ever since.
Yes, it's the cushion. But more than this it's the moments- the transformative ones when the practice of being present carries into my every day life. It is the moments when the conversations get difficult. When the finger is pointed at me, and it's hard to see where the other person ends and I begin. The moments when I could forget who I am. But like a woman in labor, I breathe through every contraction. And I have to remember where I begin--not only for myself, but also for the other. For the other who needs me to see his sadness and pain, even as it is expressed as anger. For the other who is struggling to connect, even as I feel the need to run and hide. I sit with it, closing my eyes at times to connect with the inner source of wisdom (the words- continue your practice- and the presence of love from within keeps me whole). And I echo back what I have heard to the other, the longing for care and connection beneath his judgment. The other tells me he is heard.
This was my practice tonight with my husband. And it was hard (so by the time I hit the cushion, that felt like bliss!). But afterwards, I did not feel shattered by an argument-- but instead incredibly light and connected.
My spiritual mentor has also said these words: marriage is a spiritual practice. It is a damn hard one for me sometimes. But I will continue, in partnership...returning to the cushion and the conversation, returning to the work of relationship, returning to the spiritual practice of our lives.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
A Place of Wisdom
Today was one of those perfectly balanced days-- beautiful weather, a 1/2 day of work, afternoon tea with a friend, dancing in community (Family Boogie at the local synagogue), and homework science projects with the kids at home. But intertwined in the day's sweetness were these wounds at various stages of healing-- my friend's story of the work she has been doing to transform a difficult piece of her past; the brokenness between some community members-- struggles rooted in historic tensions of race, class, gender-- and the ageless human desire for belonging; and the difficulties of my family relationships and the places I am learning to be present through it all. Meanwhile war rages on globally, manifesting in our lives. I carry a sadness this week that seems rooted in forces well outside the periphery of every day awareness. If I could break it down, violence- abuse, suicide, war, slavery-- casts a shadow in the background of each of these stories The impacts of our histories, of the world's histories, appear in our lives as clashes between us and within us, in so many ways.
But there is another reality that is part of this life; in each of these stories is the desire and practice of seeking wholeness. Our spirits long not to embody the sins of our past, but to be made whole. It is such difficult work, and we need each other-- as broken as we are-- to do the work.
As I sat with my friend, sharing a cup of tea at my favorite coffeehouse, I expressed the thought that we are all wounded healers. I asked the questions of my heart: What is ministry really? What is a sangha? And does anybody ever really heal another? Or does healing come from some other place? I was moved by how my friend was able to hear me and echo back what she heard; I hope I was able to embody presence for her story too. I still have much to learn with listening. One thing is certain: We have to do our own work in order to be present to another. But healing is ongoing process, and service is a gift we both give and receive from one another. I feel doubt and fear sometimes when I am asked to listen-- to minister-- to someone who has also served me. I feel called to be present, but doubt my ability to heal.
Perhaps that is the mystery: we do not minister or heal at all, but only open to something greater than ourselves. As my friend said: The mind seems much more capable of delusion than of wisdom. Wisdom it seems comes from another place altogether. And I agree-- my mind is not so wise. I don't know the answers. But there is this other place that can fill us with wisdom. My friend and I spoke of our ancestors, and our sangha-- both living and dead dear ones-- who stand in a line behind us and beside us, protecting us. Wisdom is only realized by being present. It is nothing from me, when I am asked to listen and to serve. But I can listen to all the pain of our histories, and hold it in the light of prayer... waiting in the darkness, and opening to a place of wisdom- sofia- as she pours in her light.
But there is another reality that is part of this life; in each of these stories is the desire and practice of seeking wholeness. Our spirits long not to embody the sins of our past, but to be made whole. It is such difficult work, and we need each other-- as broken as we are-- to do the work.
As I sat with my friend, sharing a cup of tea at my favorite coffeehouse, I expressed the thought that we are all wounded healers. I asked the questions of my heart: What is ministry really? What is a sangha? And does anybody ever really heal another? Or does healing come from some other place? I was moved by how my friend was able to hear me and echo back what she heard; I hope I was able to embody presence for her story too. I still have much to learn with listening. One thing is certain: We have to do our own work in order to be present to another. But healing is ongoing process, and service is a gift we both give and receive from one another. I feel doubt and fear sometimes when I am asked to listen-- to minister-- to someone who has also served me. I feel called to be present, but doubt my ability to heal.
Perhaps that is the mystery: we do not minister or heal at all, but only open to something greater than ourselves. As my friend said: The mind seems much more capable of delusion than of wisdom. Wisdom it seems comes from another place altogether. And I agree-- my mind is not so wise. I don't know the answers. But there is this other place that can fill us with wisdom. My friend and I spoke of our ancestors, and our sangha-- both living and dead dear ones-- who stand in a line behind us and beside us, protecting us. Wisdom is only realized by being present. It is nothing from me, when I am asked to listen and to serve. But I can listen to all the pain of our histories, and hold it in the light of prayer... waiting in the darkness, and opening to a place of wisdom- sofia- as she pours in her light.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Ashes
The first day of Lent and I am slightly distanced from renunciation. Instead of giving something up, I spent the evening cuddling, sharing a glass of wine, an indulgent plate of nachos, and watching Eat Pray Love with my husband. (I've read the book, but first time to see the movie-- ok, in spite of the cheesy writing and privileged viewpoint, I cried in many parts. And oh my, the food of Italy...the clothing of India...the scenery of Bali! The story has too many frills to appeal to my ascetic side, even in India. But the aesthetic, pleasure-seeking side of myself enjoyed it.)
This is not quite a beginning to Lenten discipline, although yesterday (Fat Tuesday) I was reading Thomas Merton and meditating. But it's all part of the balance, the yin and the yang of living. In the morning I'll return to the cushion, not with repentance, but with a continual desire for deeper life. This is my Lenten commitment-- the same as my every day-- to return, over and over again to emptiness, to contemplation. And to write about it.
There are so many life-giving paths. How could I choose just one? Oh the trick of life-- to be part monk and part hedonist! Thank God I can claim a religious path that can hold all of that-- all that fullness of being alive. On Ash Wednesday, I did not receive ashes or go to confession, though I'll admit I thought about engaging in such a practice-- perhaps for the first time in years. But I did speak with and listen to a friend who is going through a troubling time as she shared the scariness of uncertainty, and how difficult it is to sit with unknowing. On Sunday, we are going on a mini-pilgrimage to collect stones, sharing a quest for healing as companions on a journey. Perhaps the dust we kick up along the way is ash enough. I thought this as I walked my regular path to the train today and smelled smoke of winter fires. And again at my daughter's yoga class, as I breathed in the lingering scent of wood-burning oils and incense.
Ashes. To some a reminder of our deaths. But on the walk through woods, they are also a reminder of life. And aren't they one in the same, the scent of this earthly cremation reminding us of the preciousness of life? I feel lucky to surrender to uncertainty, to dissolve in the ashes of being, and to share the journey with others who are open to walking beside.
This is not quite a beginning to Lenten discipline, although yesterday (Fat Tuesday) I was reading Thomas Merton and meditating. But it's all part of the balance, the yin and the yang of living. In the morning I'll return to the cushion, not with repentance, but with a continual desire for deeper life. This is my Lenten commitment-- the same as my every day-- to return, over and over again to emptiness, to contemplation. And to write about it.
There are so many life-giving paths. How could I choose just one? Oh the trick of life-- to be part monk and part hedonist! Thank God I can claim a religious path that can hold all of that-- all that fullness of being alive. On Ash Wednesday, I did not receive ashes or go to confession, though I'll admit I thought about engaging in such a practice-- perhaps for the first time in years. But I did speak with and listen to a friend who is going through a troubling time as she shared the scariness of uncertainty, and how difficult it is to sit with unknowing. On Sunday, we are going on a mini-pilgrimage to collect stones, sharing a quest for healing as companions on a journey. Perhaps the dust we kick up along the way is ash enough. I thought this as I walked my regular path to the train today and smelled smoke of winter fires. And again at my daughter's yoga class, as I breathed in the lingering scent of wood-burning oils and incense.
Ashes. To some a reminder of our deaths. But on the walk through woods, they are also a reminder of life. And aren't they one in the same, the scent of this earthly cremation reminding us of the preciousness of life? I feel lucky to surrender to uncertainty, to dissolve in the ashes of being, and to share the journey with others who are open to walking beside.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Down to the River to Pray
I've been doing that a lot lately. Luckily I live and work and commute along one mightily beautiful one. She's got my heart. A certain creek that runs in rivulets and falls into it has a piece as well. Oh, the sound of those falls. On days like today, when I have 17 minutes to put myself back together, when the timing just isn't right to call a friend, when I have to find the strength and courage from within, then on days like today the memory of those falls sounds a lot like God. Ha- God, the word is becoming softer after all these years of running in circles around it. Holy, presence, loving and gracious God... what words will I use to pray? The waterfall speaks without ceasing, long after my words have drained.
But I didn't even use words to pray today.. Make me an instrument of your peace, turn me into light floated from my lips, but the real prayer was an experience of bringing those whose presence has healed me into my mind, to sit beside me and guide me as I sat on a bench overlooking the river. And I was filled with that same healing presence that has revealed itself as inner strength and guidance to others. It revealed itself to me.
Strange really the thought. I have thought in the past-- in the words of Dar Williams-- "And I act like I have faith, and like that faith never ends...but I really just have friends"; but today it was the silent memory of the witness of those dear ones that filled me with a light that was not their own. It's the same light I share, I realized. And this is faith. See, I had that thought-- How can I be such a light to others? And yet, I rely so much on others' love to fill me. I had thought that the only thing I have to share is that which I have been given, and how if my spark goes out, how I have to keep going back to the source. But today I thought differently-- what if I could access that source within me? I was broken-- it was a really tough morning, and I have not yet learned how to sit well with anger and violence. It tears me apart. And I had 17 minutes before a meeting. And I was crying.
But I was not alone-- it was true, the light really was there. I was not alone. And those dear ones, my 2 or 3 others who walk beside me wherever they may be, both near and far, on this spiritual journey... they were with me, just sitting there, as I found my own light. And we sat in the presence of the holy, taking in the ever-present cascade of God. Of course, they have also sat beside me in realtime and place, as well. The waterfall is real, a part of that memory of praying with one whom I trust. But, they did not need to be there in flesh to pray with me today.
I am grateful for each, and for the light that they have helped me see lies within. There are probably many more....many many more. We are a constellation of stars, and no matter how wide the darkness between-- we will remain connected by the glow of light.
But I didn't even use words to pray today.. Make me an instrument of your peace, turn me into light floated from my lips, but the real prayer was an experience of bringing those whose presence has healed me into my mind, to sit beside me and guide me as I sat on a bench overlooking the river. And I was filled with that same healing presence that has revealed itself as inner strength and guidance to others. It revealed itself to me.
Strange really the thought. I have thought in the past-- in the words of Dar Williams-- "And I act like I have faith, and like that faith never ends...but I really just have friends"; but today it was the silent memory of the witness of those dear ones that filled me with a light that was not their own. It's the same light I share, I realized. And this is faith. See, I had that thought-- How can I be such a light to others? And yet, I rely so much on others' love to fill me. I had thought that the only thing I have to share is that which I have been given, and how if my spark goes out, how I have to keep going back to the source. But today I thought differently-- what if I could access that source within me? I was broken-- it was a really tough morning, and I have not yet learned how to sit well with anger and violence. It tears me apart. And I had 17 minutes before a meeting. And I was crying.
But I was not alone-- it was true, the light really was there. I was not alone. And those dear ones, my 2 or 3 others who walk beside me wherever they may be, both near and far, on this spiritual journey... they were with me, just sitting there, as I found my own light. And we sat in the presence of the holy, taking in the ever-present cascade of God. Of course, they have also sat beside me in realtime and place, as well. The waterfall is real, a part of that memory of praying with one whom I trust. But, they did not need to be there in flesh to pray with me today.
I am grateful for each, and for the light that they have helped me see lies within. There are probably many more....many many more. We are a constellation of stars, and no matter how wide the darkness between-- we will remain connected by the glow of light.
Monday, February 20, 2012
Being Present to Myself
Lord, this is hard. It is difficult enough maintaining presence and balance at home. Being in relationship with my family is a spiritual practice which brings both pain and joy. It is my children who try my patience continuously with their constant litany of needs; and it is my children who stun me with wonder and amazement with their unending creativity, love and openness.
Add to the daily challenges these other stories I can't seem to shake: emotional attachments, sensitivities, dreams and brokenness. Yes, I have a resilient spirit: It's been named. And brokenness paves the way for empathy, the ability to serve. But as the clock rounds once again into February, the ground beneath is unsteady.
I met with my Be Present support group today, with two people who I have been meeting with monthly for just about three years. We share check-ins and offer each other ongoing listening support. I trust their friendship, and am confident that I will not say anything of harm.... I have already said so much, and they have stood by me, continuing to witness through it all.
But even as much as I trust them, I still have secrets. I am grieving right now, all the goodbyes of many years piled up into one. I laugh as I see my five year old who has the hardest time letting go of things-- toys, plans, control. But I am secretly the same way. I possess. I call it "emotional attachment", but isn't it also possessing? Holding on to all that never really belongs to me, yet I keep it secretly as if it were really mine.
When someone dies or leaves our lives, though, it is natural to feel this pain. I have to learn to remake myself apart from my attachment. This is the practice... and I should be an expert by now! Life does go on, and I suppose the only question is-- am I transformed? Or do I simply bide my time until I can transfer my attachment?
Years ago, I used to identify strongly with the song from Evita, "Another Suitcase, Another Hall" about a woman who got used to being left by her lovers, and survived. And while my life isn't nearly as dramatic (I have no secret lovers to let go of), I am still shaken when relationships and dreams in my life change. It is true, we do move on and in time, these attachments do fade....and really beautifully, there is only love that remains. But in the meantime, it does not feel easy.
So the hidden darkness I am present to today is my own. Even as I spent nearly all my time with others today, it is now at the end of the day all the words I did not say to my support group, to my husband, or to anyone else in my life...just skirting around a private, maybe embarrassing pain. And in the midst of this, also learning to maintain a loving presence for my family and friends. But, I can only hold in others what I can also hold in myself, so this work today was incredibly hard, but also very necessary. This is the work of shedding skin, and making way for growth.
Add to the daily challenges these other stories I can't seem to shake: emotional attachments, sensitivities, dreams and brokenness. Yes, I have a resilient spirit: It's been named. And brokenness paves the way for empathy, the ability to serve. But as the clock rounds once again into February, the ground beneath is unsteady.
I met with my Be Present support group today, with two people who I have been meeting with monthly for just about three years. We share check-ins and offer each other ongoing listening support. I trust their friendship, and am confident that I will not say anything of harm.... I have already said so much, and they have stood by me, continuing to witness through it all.
But even as much as I trust them, I still have secrets. I am grieving right now, all the goodbyes of many years piled up into one. I laugh as I see my five year old who has the hardest time letting go of things-- toys, plans, control. But I am secretly the same way. I possess. I call it "emotional attachment", but isn't it also possessing? Holding on to all that never really belongs to me, yet I keep it secretly as if it were really mine.
When someone dies or leaves our lives, though, it is natural to feel this pain. I have to learn to remake myself apart from my attachment. This is the practice... and I should be an expert by now! Life does go on, and I suppose the only question is-- am I transformed? Or do I simply bide my time until I can transfer my attachment?
Years ago, I used to identify strongly with the song from Evita, "Another Suitcase, Another Hall" about a woman who got used to being left by her lovers, and survived. And while my life isn't nearly as dramatic (I have no secret lovers to let go of), I am still shaken when relationships and dreams in my life change. It is true, we do move on and in time, these attachments do fade....and really beautifully, there is only love that remains. But in the meantime, it does not feel easy.
So the hidden darkness I am present to today is my own. Even as I spent nearly all my time with others today, it is now at the end of the day all the words I did not say to my support group, to my husband, or to anyone else in my life...just skirting around a private, maybe embarrassing pain. And in the midst of this, also learning to maintain a loving presence for my family and friends. But, I can only hold in others what I can also hold in myself, so this work today was incredibly hard, but also very necessary. This is the work of shedding skin, and making way for growth.
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