The Invisible Carver

"Ya just never know." So began my last post, its sentiment aptly expressed within my own life. Since late August, my husband has had a cascading series of health challenges, and they and the medical response they evoked have turned our world upside down and inside out. Though none of them have been directly life~threatening, these experiences have cumulatively aged my sweet man and brought us both right up against the stark reality that bodies decline, that loss is a given, and that we never truly know what's to come. 

Years ago, my friend's therapist advised her: "Learn Buddhism now. You're gonna need it later." Well, later arrived on my doorstep three months ago and it seems determined to hang around a bit longer. And so I put into practice all I know about impermanence, about being in the moment with what is, simply as it is. I hone my ability to not close down to any of it, and to instead welcome it all with the friendliness of a good innkeeper, no matter the guest who appears at the door. 

Human creature that I am, I have railed against this unruly visitor at times, grumbled about its outrageous behavior, sobbed at the pain it has brought our way...which, of course, did not make it depart. While those responses did provide necessary truth~telling and a much~needed release, I knew that sooner or later I needed to say yes to this troublesome visitor and see in it an opportunity to bring me to my best. 

This, after all, is the essence of a spiritually~informed life. Wisdom teachings worth their salt are not to be lived in the rarefied fields of the abstract. They must be brought to life within life, within our individual lives. And so, I try to receive this scoundrel of a guest and to skillfully use its presence to become the finest version of myself. 

I have been gifted—and cursed—with a tenacious will. I generally know my preferred direction and am usually able to set out upon its course to attain what I desire. As another friend put it, "Leia, you sure know how to get sh*t done." And it's true. I do. 

I know this sense of personal control is largely illusory and that I don't "get sh*t done" in a vacuum, but am helped by many others often including, it seems, several pairs of unseen hands and more than a dollop of luck. And yet, believing I choose my own path is an illusion to which I am partial. And so I am stretched when something like this current challenge lands atop me, and my only choice is in my response to it. I am asked to surrender my dogged will, and to offer myself up to the process of change...and of being changed. 

In The Faces Of Braga, poet David Whyte describes an experience in the shrine room of an ancient Himalayan monastery. After lighting the butter lamps and bowing into the silence, he looked up to see "a hundred faces carved above, eye lines wrinkled in the handheld light." He tells us that "their eyes have softened through age and their mouths curve through delight of the carver's hand." And then he brings it home with these words: "If only our own faces would allow the invisible carver's hand to bring the deep grain of love to the surface." 

I have felt the Invisible Carver's hand in a new way during these past few months. I feel Her chisel as I tend my husband's body, as my heart breaks for his heartbreak, as I grow in my ability to relinquish control, to love more purely, and to surrender to what is. 

One very practical application of this process is the recognition that I must postpone the publication of the book I have poured my heart and soul into writing, the one I've spent much of the past eight months figuring how best to bring into the world. My plan was to have published it last week, but given that so much of my time and energy is now needed elsewhere, to do so would have required cutting corners, and the push to proceed regardless would have been unkind to the me who's working hard just to stay afloat. 

And so I surrendered what I wanted in favor of what life was advising. An initially sad choice, to be sure, but one that now is woven through with considerable relief and an unwavering certainty that following the guidance offered is ultimately for the best. 

Enchanted, A Tale of Remembrance is now scheduled to publish on March 23rd, 2023...and we shall see what the Invisible Carver has to say about that plan. In the meantime, I will do my best to willingly offer myself as She brings the deep grain of love to the surface. 

I end with the wish that your own guests are well~behaved and your Carver is wielding her chisel gently.

Much love, 

Leia

For David Whyte's poem The Faces of Braga, click here. And while I didn't specifically quote Rumi's beautiful poem The Guest House, you can see its influence in all I have written and you can read it here.

And if you missed the last few posts and wanna play catch~up, you can find October's post here, and November's here. 

Ya Just Never Know...

Life can be buzzing along quite nicely, thank you very much, when out of the blue—WHAM!!!—something comes crashing through. A meteor hits, unexpected and unwelcomed, and there is no choice but to figure out how to respond. 

It is in the fashioning of that response, though, that we take our stand and have our say. It is also in that response that the spiritual practices we've been nurturing come off the cushion, out of the pew, and down from the mountaintop, right into the messiness of a lived life. 

The first step is to acknowledge that messiness and the truth of how we feel. We are, after all, feeling creatures. To deny the full range of emotional reactions is to do a violence to ourselves. It is also dishonest, and an authentic spiritual life requires honesty above all else. 

So we start by simply telling the truth about how it all feels, and expressing that truth to those we trust. Not only is a burden shared easier to carry, but the act of sharing can keep us from drowning in our pain or coming to believe pain is all there is. Depending on the length of our season of crisis, this simple truth-telling may not be a one-time thing. Whenever emotions rise up, whatever they are, we need to receive and attend to them with kindness.

But then what? Other than finding the courage to feel our emotions—because it does, indeed, take courage—what do we do? We ask for guidance. Depending on our personal theology, this can take many forms. All spiritual traditions, though, promise that assistance is ever available, particularly in times of heartache and strife. And whether we believe in guidance from beyond or not, we all have a wealth of inner wisdom to draw upon. 

So after the tears and the gnashing of teeth—or between rounds of each—we access wisdom about the next right step on our path. We then move forward, stopping periodically to reassess our chosen direction and make adjustments as wisdom urges. And we take a realistic view. Depending on the particulars, we accept that we may be in for a long haul. We eschew a Pollyannaish, Hallmarky belief in quick fixes, a belief that will tempt us to give up should the outcome we want not arrive as soon as we would like. 

A good friend of ours had a wilderness camping experience decades ago that illustrates this process. While he was taking a walk after setting up his tent, a freak snowstorm blew in and changed the look of the terrain so profoundly that he was unable to find his campsite. Luckily he knew how to reach his car, which was parked on the highway at the top of a steep incline. He proceeded to spend three nights there, unsuccessfully searching for his tent by day, walking a grid pattern so as not to miss it, yet miss it he did. Discouragement mounted. 

In the dark hours of the third night, though, he was suddenly overwhelmed by a flush of confidence that he would find his site that day. Yet after traipsing through a different set of grid patterns all morning and into early afternoon, his site was still lost to him. 

Despite feeling about as low as possible, intuition flashed a second time. He realized he'd come to the Shenandoah Valley to enjoy nature, and yet was blinded to its beauty by ceaselessly searching while spinning storylines about the personal flaws exposed by this situation. So he found a place to sit. He looked out over a valley awash in sunlight shimmering upon freshly fallen snow. He ate a nearly frozen peanut butter and honey sandwich. And he came fully into the moment. And for a third time, intuition arrived. Even though he could not see the tent from where he sat, he said with absolute certainty "It's right there." And sure enough, his tent was just a short walk away. 

This story speaks many truths. First, while intuitive guidance can be trusted, we still need to do the work. In those wee hours of the previous night, our friend knew he'd find his tent that day, but it was not magic. He still had to walk the grid. Many times. And while he walked it, he needed to acknowledge the emotions that consumed him, not brushing them off or pretending them away. But he also couldn't live in them. He needed to find ways to calm himself, to be with what was. 

And he did. As he sat on that boulder eating a cold sandwich, he moved beyond his discouragement and tapped into something much larger. Regardless of whether his guidance originated from an inner wisdom or friendly help from beyond, he'd found an inner state capable of receiving it. 

There are no short cuts in life, few Disney endings in this world. Our intuition may be right, but it doesn't always play out exactly the way we might like and certainly not as quickly. We still have to walk the grid, step by step, discovering where it leads. 

Challenges come to us all, and they require much from us. How we meet them is ours and ours alone to decide. Such is the artistry of a human life, developing the skill to craft our own unique response to meet what comes. 

Wherever these words find you, whatever is going on in your life, I trust your strength to feel your emotions, your wisdom to open to support and guidance, and your skill to fashion your own unique and precious response. And please, cut yourself some slack. You're doing your very best. 

This living is quite a ride, isn't it? I wish you well with the journey.

With love,

Leia

Loaves and Fish

What a wild ride it has been! At the end of August, my husband seriously injured his back, and as his pain intensified, we began to fear the injury could be permanent and profoundly life~changing.

At the ER a few days later, we received the wonderful news that there were no fractures and only age~expected disc degeneration. However, he was also given a medication that led to numerous and debilitating side effects. In turn, these elicited a string of other reactions from which we are still reeling more than a month later. Our life has, indeed, been turned upside down.

And, of course, while all this was going on, so was the rest of life, including several deadlines concerning the publication of the book I've spent the last year and a half imbuing with heart and soul.

This time has been filled with many gifts, as well as lessons in trust and surrender. I am called to trust more deeply that we will be guided forward, and that all that needs doing will get done. I am also learning to more fully surrender to the rollicking ride our life has become.

By nature, I'm a worker bee. I'm not a workaholic by any means, but I do work steadily and consistently toward the goals I set for myself. And yet, the jumble of tasks, emotions, doctor appointments, and household and personal maintenance has thrown all that up into the air.

As anxiety spiked one day about how I could possibly get everything done, a Bible story came to mind, the one of Jesus feeding 5,000 people from just five loaves of bread and 2 fish. But for the Resurrection, it is the only miracle recorded in all four canonical gospels, one indication that its message is of particular importance.

As I stand at my own Sea of Galilee, this story reminds me that sufficient loaves and fish exist to attend to and complete the tasks at hand, even if I cannot fathom the how of it. Challenging times butt us right up against our ego's desire to run the show and have things move in accordance with our desires, expectations, and personal timetables.

Yet if we let them, such times can also guide us to more fully accept that we are only human and need only do our best. No matter how I would like things to be, or how I would like myself to be, my best effort is all I can give. When I can't see my way forward, when I am weary or frightened or uncertain, I can do what I can...and it is enough.

A deeper message emerges as I further contemplate this Bible story now, one that extends far beyond the current drama being played out in my personal life. The tale reminds us that a different sort of physics applies to matters of the spirit.

In the outer world, there is a finite supply of energy. Where Love is concerned, though, a different dynamic reigns. Love is not diminished by loving. Rather the act of loving welcomes further love, in oneself and in others.

Love is a spring that surges more robustly from the drinking. Or to keep with our current metaphor, our basket of fish grows ever more full, providing ongoing sustenance in a way our rational minds cannot fully grasp. Bread and fish given create more of each to give.

If we give from our personal well alone, over time we will become depleted body and soul. But if we tap into that larger stream, that greater Love, an otherwise limited supply is ever renewed, and the impossible becomes possible.

Jesus did not only speak in parables. He lived them, enacting in his life what can become a model for our own. Before breaking the bread by the Sea that day, we are told he looked up to heaven and gave thanks. In this simple act, Jesus stepped symbolically into that stream of greater Love, making clear his connection to the Divine and expressing gratitude for Its many gifts. In so doing, he provides us an example of how to move forward ourselves.

In our very human lives, we do often need to reevaluate our commitments and the many shoulds we have unconsciously adopted, lest we overextend ourselves. In every moment, though, and particularly when life is hard, this Jesus story offers us a template of how to proceed.

We first, in whatever way fits our personal theology, reestablish our connection to that which is eternal and give thanks for the opportunity to be alive on this small planet swirling in space. We then bless our loaves and our fish, and begin to do as we can, distributing our talents and efforts as we are called. Then we trust and we surrender. And we call it good.

My husband's back is slowly improving, his pain lessening. The medicine that caused him so much hardship is mostly out of his system now, and with the help of skilled practitioners we are developing a plan to address the other health issues created by this perfectly imperfect storm.

And I'm pleased to say that Enchanted, A Tale of Remembrance will be available on Amazon, loaves and fish willing, by the end of November.

Against this backdrop, I continue to be taught how to become more fully human, with grace, trust and surrender. Looking up to heaven, to that which is beyond what my personality can grasp, I step again and again into that stream of love. And I give thanks for it all.

Much, much love...and with many loaves and fish offered!

Leia

Magic Runs Through It

Recently, my husband and I took a sweet day off together. Since the weather was stuck in a pattern of rain, rain, and more rain, we abandoned our plan to scout out a place for him to flyfish, with a shaded spot nearby for me to read and to write. We settled instead on a day inside, a day filled with lovemaking, eating a variety of special foods we do not normally eat, and watching A River Runs Through It, a cherished movie we had not seen in 30 years. 

This luxurious film ends with Robert Redford speaking these words in voiceover: "Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time...I am haunted by waters." 

 

And I am haunted by those words and the essence they hold. This film is ostensibly about a family living in Montana in the 1920s, but it is really about the splendor of the natural world, and as Roger Ebert put it, about "elegance, grace and honesty, in accord with nature." As we watched this movie on that sweet rainy day far from the Montana and Wyoming rivers on which it was filmed, we found ourselves inspired to live in just that way, with elegance, grace and honesty, in accord with nature. 

 

Thinking about it now nearly three weeks later, the beauty of that haunting fills me, pierces me, and calls forth something from deep inside, particularly the scene at the end of the film which a quick google brings now to my laptop screen. The narrator Norman MacLean appears as an old man fishing in the solitude of the river, "in the half-light of the canyon." 

 

And once more, I am mesmerized. I see again the care with which he attaches the fly, the unhurried swing of the rod back and forth, the line trailing leisurely before landing upon the glistening water, cliffs rising majestically along the river's edge as blue sky stretches above...and tears come to my eyes.

 

I have no interest in flyfishing, but I am enthralled by the natural world. It brings me alive and the reason is obvious. I am part of that world and when I enter its pristine environs, even through memory or a computer screen, something within me leaps in response. I wake up. I remember. Yes, that's it. I re-member myself into relationship with All That Is. Though Norman MacLean reminds us that all things eventually merge into one, the truth is that all things already are one, and in moments of breakthrough magic we merely know it again.

 

A line from the delightful children's book The Girl Who Drank The Moon by Kelly Barnhill hopped off the page at me just this morning. "Magic is the most fundamental—and yet least understood—element of the known universe." It is, of course, impossible to understand because, well, it's magic. And magic can only ever be felt. It must be comprehended, instinctually and spontaneously, through full-bodied experience rather than merely being grasped with the mind alone. 

 

Such magic awakens us to the Mystery that is already there, ever and always. Then it is up to us to stay awake, no small feat given brains designed to become inured to, even oblivious to, that which is always present. But still, it is our task. Peter Goninan, a character in Charles de Lint's novel, The Little Country, puts it this way: "if you don't want the magic to fade, then learn to wake up and stay awake." Sounds simple, but how exactly do we do this?

 

Faith traditions offer practices, suggestions for waking up, but it is for each of us to take those that best fit our temperament, weave them through our lives, and consistently tend those strands. Then their beauty will be thrilled to shine more readily...with elegance, grace, and honestly, in accord with nature.

Much love,

Leia

Light Up The World!

I subscribe to a few newsletters that arrive at various times throughout the month, showering my inbox with life~enhancing wisdom. In the past week, I've received two and, as is often the case, they work well together.

The first is from theologian Meggan Watterson, in which she explores several passages from the Gospel of Thomas, one of the Christian texts unearthed near Nag Hammadi, Egypt in 1945. Both Greek and Coptic fragments of this Gospel were found, supporting the likelihood that it was widely read during the earliest days of Christianity, before all but the canonical gospels were condemned by the Church.

The Gospel begins with this statement: "These are the secret sayings that the living Jesus spoke." About two~thirds of these are similar to the quotes found in the Gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. Others, however, are quite different. 

In Thomas, Jesus speaks of non~duality and describes himself as "the one who comes from what is undivided." For Watterson, this means "the one who is anchored in a love that never ends," despite the flux, divisions and divisiveness of our human world. Jesus urges us to the same standard. "When you make the two into one, and when you make the inner like the outer and the outer like the inner...and when you make male and female into a single one, then you will enter the kingdom of heaven."

This rather cryptic message mirrors Eastern spiritual traditions that seek the still point at the center of it all and encourage us to perceive with the eyes of the heart the unity that lies beneath all external differences. In Thomas, the kingdom of heaven is identified not as something out there, a separate place we can hope to enter only upon physical death. 

"What you look forward to has already come," Jesus says, "but you do not recognize it." According to Watterson, this is because "we walk around every day with heaven already right here, within." Heaven, Jesus tells us, is a light within us, here and now and right in the muck and the glory of a human life. "There is light within a person of light," Jesus says, "and it lights up the whole world." He calls us to live from that light by remembering and acting from the eternal while dwelling in the world as it is. 

No easy task then. No easy task now. And still it is our task. We are, Watterson says, "these mortal, vulnerable, fleeting human beings that constantly fail and fall down and make tremendous mistakes, all while containing an infinite fire, an immutable, inviolable soul... a love that never ends, and never fails." 

Jesus instructs "If they say to you, 'Where have you come from?' say to them, 'We have come from the light.' " 

Enter the second newsletter from a much different source. Astrologer Kirsty Gallagher focuses on the energies of Leo, the astrological sign the Sun entered late last month, one that is all about shining out from one's soul.

"I know," she writes, "that right now the world may feel wild, chaotic, erratic, scary and unsettling to the human us." She encourages us, though, "not to add to the scarcity, lack and fear and instead connect to...(and) operate from the level of our soul." What this looks like will vary among us, as we are each a unique expression of Source energy. Yet she urges us "to expand and be brave and bold and follow where your soul is calling you to go...the world needs your light more than ever right now."

Back to Thomas. "If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you.”

Similar messages from the Jesus of two thousand years ago, a theologian with degrees in theology and divinity from Harvard and Columbia respectively, and an astrologer and yoga teacher from the UK: 

Remember the Light. Connect with the Light. Express the Light in your own unique way within your very human life. In just this way, we each do our part in lighting up the world.

Light and Love ever flowing,

Leia

Summertime!!!

Up and doing. That phrase has been on my mind lately, likely because with the Earth having spun us into summertime, I've been up and doing myself, as I imagine you have been as well. It is just that time of the year. 

In the recent weeks of my own life, I have completed the final (hah!) revision of my book, read it aloud from start to finish to my sweet husband, sent it off to two additional readers for review, and begun the process of deciding how best to release it into the world. (Stay tuned!)There have also been a flurry of socializing, with a plethora of in~person, Zoom, and phone get~togethers with dear ones, a wonderfully exuberant, community~wide memorial service for a friend who left her body last autumn, and plans finalized for a slew of visitors next month. 

 

Quite a whirlwind. And yet, it has not all been delight. Because we could not come together as a society the way we have with other illnesses, such as smallpox, polio, measles, mumps and diphtheria, COVID is here to stay. And like many people, I am still reeling from the latest infringement on a woman's right to privacy and the control of her own body, and bracing for reversals of hard-won gains in other areas. And too, the ongoing level of incivility and downright ugliness continues to disturb.

 

But summertime's expansive energies have arrived. It's not all rainbows and butterflies by any means, but I feel buoyed, lifted up out of myself, and flung into the world. And even with the alarming aspects, I find a greater energy to respond. I hope you feel the same.

 

Summertime has a different flavor than the inward~turning months of winter. No longer closed in and hunkering down, we are indeed up and doing. And it's ours to decide the direction we move. It is also ours to find the center point within the hustle and bustle. Just as we need to be appropriately active over the winter months lest we withdraw too far, we need to find pockets of quietude within the busyness of our current season.

 

When we regularly move into the eye of the whirlwind and rest there, we not only soothe our nervous systems, but are better able to listen to guidance that can inform our next steps. Activity without such an orientation can easily become mindless and giddy rather than wise. Just as the Yin of winter can lead us into depression and isolation if not managed well, the Yang of summertime needs tempering if we wish not to fritter away its effervescence in pursuits that do not feed our souls. So we balance our up~and~doing~ness by regularly sitting down and doing nothing. In fact, let's do that right now. 

 

Read these words a bit more slowly as you come into this moment, just as it is. Notice the breath that causes your chest or belly to rise and to fall. You might become aware of your heart, that oldest of companions, tapping out its familiar beat, a Morse Code of sorts that says, "I am here. I am right here." Perhaps you notice, too, the way light spreads across the room or the sounds, soft or grating, that surround you. And as you tune into these sensations and any others that come to your awareness, you might also note that this simple presence is all that is asked of you in this moment. Simply to be. Here. Now. That is all.

 

And no, we need not tarry long. Life does, indeed, call to us even now, and responding is what this season is all about. And yet, pausing regularly to get our bearings and to listen for guidance assists us to be up and doing most effectively, most productively, most satisfyingly.

 

The seasons will continue their play. Autumn will soon be upon us once again, turning us back toward stillness. But for now, may we delight in these longer days and in the feel of fresh air and sunlight on bare skin. Let us dance with this season. And just as with any dance, maintaining a balance offers us the best chance for a smooth and graceful progression across the floor. 

 

Dance on, my friends. Dance on.

 

Much love,

 

Leia

All Rivers Flow to the Sea

 I am delighted when two themes appear in my life, mingle together and become one. Like the confluence of two great rivers, each magnificent in its own right, they join forces to carry me toward the sea. Such a river voyage came to me recently. 

The first waterway emerged from a Krista Tippett interview with Irish theologian, poet, and conflict mediator Pádraig ÓTuama, who spoke eloquently of the difficulty of living well within our messy human world, where conflicts abound and peace seems often a distant dream.

 

As important as any of the words spoken, though, was the site at which the interview took place, for CorrymeelaCommunity is one of Northern Ireland's organizations that was, and continues to be, instrumental in healing the divisions that fueled 30 years of internal war. So even though the interview centered on the challenge of working creatively with divides that seem unbridgeable, its very location was proof that peace is possible among us. If it could be done in Ireland, it can be done here as well.

 

Enter the second river. A dear soul recently sent me the article Reasonable Hope by Kaethe Weingarten. Though it specifically focused on conveying a sense of possibility within a family therapy context, its applications to living in the world at large were clearly evident.

 

Weingarten notes that the "classic images of hope~~a butterfly, a rainbow, an undemanding bird that perches in one’s soul~~set up expectations and standards that are without limit," making them patently unattainable in most real-life situations. She argues instead for "a humble hope", one that "softens the polarity between hope and despair, hope and hopelessness." She then goes on to articulate the dimensions of a reasonable hope, one that "accommodates doubt, contradictions and despair."

 

This type of hope thrives in relationship, and is something we practice together. It is "not about accomplishing a goal but aiming toward it." It assumes that "the future is open, uncertain and influenceable." We then are in a position to employ our resources toward desired goals and identifying pathways to reach them. In this way, hope is transformed from something we have to something we do. Hope not as a noun, but a verb. 

 

And those two rivers lift me up and carry me into real-world applications. Children dying in classrooms. War in Eastern Europe. Polarization and incivility within our own country. And those life-giving waters support me as they bring me toward the sea.

 

Ó Tuama speaks of the importance~~and the difficulty~~of coming home to "here", to the truth of what is, especially when it is disturbing. He notes that, "the notion of saying hello to "here" requires a fairly robust capacity to tell the truth about what is really going on. Noting that "most people do what seems reasonable to them at the time," he encourages us not to vilify or "give insult back", reminding us that we, too, may need others "to extend their generosity" when we are acting poorly or in a way that seems incomprehensible to them. As he speaks of these things that are so much easier to accept in theory than enact in practice, I remember that his words come out of an intimate acquaintance with the effects of war. He knows whereof he speaks.

 

From Weingarten I learn what it looks like to give reasonable hope its feet. I can admit that at times I despair that we will ever learn, while also accepting that the future is influenceable and, therefore, alive with possibility. I practice in my own life and on a daily basis, choosing perspectives, words and actions that aim toward the change I'd like to see in the world. And I share this kind of hope, a reasonable kind of hope, in relationship with others. Such as you, dear reader.

 

Two waterways, each one important. Imagine my delight in learning that these two waterways merge in the name Corrymeela. When it was founded in 1965, someone with a passing knowledge of Old Irish linguistics said the name meant "hill of harmony", which its members all found delightfully sweet at the time. Ten years later, though, someone who knew more about Old Irish etymology said its meaning was closer to "place of lumpy crossings." This came as a relief because by then they'd realized that, "apart from the occasional song," they weren't so good at the harmony thing.

The people of Ireland were able to meet at the place of lumpy crossings to forge The Good Friday Agreement of 1998 that brought an end to the war, and have continued to meet at that place of lumpiness to address the lingering effects of decades of violence. As I said, if they can do it there, we can do it here.

While we might wish to live always on the hill of harmony, the "here" of humankind seems more a place of lumpy crossings. To not acknowledge that is to set ourselves up for failure. This lumpiness is the "here" Ó Tuama describes as "a complicated compromise" where we get to "participate in this fantastic argument of being alive." And it is the "here" that can give rise, if we let it, to a reasonable hope. Again, if they did it there, we can do it here.

 

And as these watercourses carry me to the sea, I end with a quote from the epilogue of This Tender Land, a novel by William Kent Krueger. "There is a river that runs through time and the universe, vast and inexplicable, a flow of spirit that is at the heart of all existence, and every molecule of our being is a part of it." 

 

Another very important and balancing "here" for us all, whether we agree on everything or nothing. If we can remember that every single one of us is part of that flow, maybe it will be easier to greet each other with respect, compassion and sincere interest here in this place of lumpy crossings.

 

Much love, from my place of lumpiness to yours,

 

Leia

You can listen to Krista's interview with Padraig~~highly recommended!!~~by clicking here.

I can't find an online link for Weingarten's full article on Reasonable Hope, though click here for an article in which she discusses many of the same concepts. If you'd like to read the original, let me know and I'll send it to you by email.

Blessings!

Stitching The Soul

Life sure can spin us around, can't it? There's so much to do with such a profusion of influences, distractions and demands streaming our way that it's easy to become disoriented and lose sight of what truly matters. This is why it's beneficial to have ways to bring us back to center, methods that return us to ourselves. 

Author and unabashed mystic Rebecca Campbell describes these as practices for "stitching the soul back into everyday life." Of course, the soul is already part of daily life. That essence, no matter the name we give it, is part of everything we do, and it comes with us wherever we go. But it's easy to forget it's even there as we're called hither, thither and yon by whatever wheel squeaks at us the loudest.

So I'd like to reverse the direction of Campbell's metaphor. It is not the soul that needs stitching back into everyday life, but everyday life that needs stitching back into soul. It is this ability we need to strengthen, so we can return our awareness to what is always and ever there. 

The goal of a spiritually-informed life is to allow the sacred to occupy centerstage that we might follow its lead. And the soul is our direct link to the sacred, a homing pigeon ever ready to carry us home. Campbell offers a beautifully simple formula to encourage this process: connect to the soul, listen to what it says, and take an action, likely quite small, in response. As with many simple formulas, though, there is an art to the enactment of this one.

So let's begin with Campbell's first step. Connecting to the soul necessitates that we turn to face it. For most of us, this requires setting aside time within our days, time dedicated to nurturing a relationship with the soul as a doorway to the sacred. Yet how we do this must fit our unique disposition, the personal theology that calls to us, and the current details of our very particular lives. Spirituality can never be a once-size-fits-all kind of thing.

For some, this turning toward may mean engaging in periods of sitting meditation, prayer, study, or devotional service. Others may be called into nature or to singing, artwork, or slow or rapid movement that, through calming the mind, opens a passageway to so much more. The methods are as varied as we are, and discovering what works best for us is essential, recognizing that what may work in one situation or season of our lives, might be less fitting for another. These practices must also be sustainable over time, as the spiritual life needs ever to hold the long view. 

Campbell's second step is listening to the messages the soul sends. Once we've connected, a conversation of sorts will ensue. However, this is where things get a bit tricky, as the soul's guidance is often offered obliquely, sometimes maddeningly so. While we may wish for a memo with specific instructions, including timelines and suggestions for how to pay the bills and who will watch the children while we're off following its urgings, the soul doesn't usually work this way.

So we show up as we are, offering all of ourselves to the conversation, including our struggles, questions, hopes and fears. And then we listen. The soul's response may come in the language of silence, or a felt sense, or recognitions that appear hours or days later. Listening for this inner voice, developing the ability to distinguish it from our own wishes and doubts, and interpreting its guidance lies at the heart of spiritual practice. It is the art of living as spiritual beings. 

No one said it would be easy, dang it. And yet, as Jesus taught, "Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you." We may not get the answer we hope for. It may not arrive with the clarity or speed we would like. But the soul knows what we do not, and it can be trusted.

Campbell's third step is to express in some way the guidance we've received, to find a simple action to follow the soul's lead. When things are going smoothly in our world, nothing new may be asked of us beyond simple acknowledgment. But in times of turmoil or when our soul sends whispers of a needed change, some action will often be asked of us. Such steps can be quite small: making a particular phone call, spending a few minutes online exploring a possible avenue, engaging in an act of kindness.

And yet the real magic comes when, after having learned the habit of Campbell's formula in our practice periods, the soul begins to speak to us spontaneously within our daily lives. Or perhaps it always has, and we merely grow better able to clearly perceive it. In a heated exchange, our soul is there to guide us. When we're uncertain, we hear its voice urging us forward. When frightened, we feel soothed. This is another important dimension of the spiritual life, how it shapes us and our behavior out in the world.

This human life is an amazing adventure, one we are on together. Each of us is part of a vast dance, singing the tune that is uniquely ours, while intermingling with the song-steps of others. It is truly a thing of beauty.

In a recent dream, I heard these words: "It is all My breath. It is all holy." As we dance and as we sing, may we know that it is good.

With a dancing and a singing love, on this Mother's Day I honor all you do to nurture, in whatever way it comes to you to do it. Blessings!

Leia

For more on Rebecca Campbell, click here.

Bloom On!

Sometimes, a word or image drops into my brain and won't let go. This week, it's the word becoming. Likely it has arrived because we stand on the brink of Spring, with life bursting forth into new expressions of itself everywhere we look. Of course, though these outer forms seem new, their essence has been there all along. Encased in womb or seed, or in energy drawn down into the wintering root of a mother plant, they were only biding time while working their magic away from our eyes. 

Life just never stops. It is ever becoming, always about the business of flourishing and thriving. Even as a particular expression wanes and dies off, it does so in order to make way for new growth. This cycle is perpetual. New life comes into being, matures, grows old and dies off after having, in some way, nurtured the next generation. 

 

While most species seem to have an affinity for this process, we humans have a harder time putting ourselves in sync with such natural rhythms. Certainly we appear to have a penchant for complicating things, complicated creatures that we are. Perhaps this is because we are here for another purpose altogether. 

 

Particularly in this modern age, it seems our aim is to grow in awareness about how best to engage the world with meaning and purpose, a perplexing, even convoluted process at best. Various spiritual traditions confirm that this is just part of the human gig we've got going on. We are to grow ever more conscious of the choices we're making, using the free will given us to choose wisely, even when we can't see where those choices will lead.

 

My husband offered the perfect metaphor for this recently. On a late winter's night with a soothing fire burning in the hearth, we were talking about the new phase he feels himself moving into. "It's like I've been given a jigsaw puzzle," he explained, "but it came in a plain brown box. There's no picture on the cover to go by, and I need to connect the pieces without any idea what the final image will be." 

 

Great, huh? And this metaphor works for all of us and at each stage or situation in our lives. We really don't know where a certain choice will lead or what the final outcome will be. Yet we must use the puzzle pieces given us and fashion from them some sort of unified whole. No one can tell us how to do it, or confirm that we are correctly shaping what will become that final creation. 

 

And we have arrived back once more at the word becoming. A human life seems primarily about becoming oneself. There is such freedom in it, though at times that freedom can feel a bit like terror. How are we to negotiate such a course? 

 

St. John of the Cross offers us a clue in the following words: “If a man wishes to be sure of the road he treads on, he must close his eyes and walk in the dark.”  On the face of it, that might not sound particularly comforting, but let's look more deeply into his counsel. 

 

He seems to be suggesting that another kind of sight~~and a truer one, as well~~will open up when we forgo our usual ways of perceiving the world. I appreciate St. John's confidence on our behalf as he reminds us that this purer sort of vision, an inner one, is our birthright and is available to help us recognize our path and to guide our feet as we walk upon it. 

 

This suggests to me, too, that perhaps we're not so very different from the flora and fauna with whom we share the planet. We have the ability to know, just as they do, how to live the life that is ours by responding to the animating force coursing through us. While our walk through this world will likely still be more complicated than theirs, as we look with St. John's closed~eyed purity, we might be able to adopt his confidence that we will find our way forward.

 

As we see the natural world budding and unfurling in the weeks to come, we could remember that we, too, live that season. The enthusiasm that is Spring sings in our blood and in our bones, in our muscle and in the movement of our limbs.

 

In a recent interview, Krista Tippett remarked that "becoming fully ourselves is the work of a lifetime." And so, let's get on with it and in a big way. Let's take a huge leap forward, trusting that inner vision to guide us toward fullness.

 

A happy, happy Spring to you! Bud your little heart out, and unfurl that which is just itchin' to express itself through you. Let these be your gift to us all.

Bloomingly yours,

Leia

Here Comes The Sun!

One early morning when deep snow made maneuvering the lake path challenging, I chose an around~town walk instead. The plows had cleared the paved roads, and the dirt ones were already lined with tire tracks making possible a fast pace. While not as spectacular as at the lake, the views from the streets around town still showcased the ring of snow~covered mountains, some shimmering with the first rays of the rising sun. I was delighted, as I am each morning. 

Years ago my father, a dedicated night owl and late riser after retirement, asked what was so darn special about a sunrise. "What can I possibly see at dawn that I can't see at sunset?" A rhetorical question I realized when he brushed off my answer. He already knew that dawn held nothing for him, and I'm sure many who love to ramble late into the evening would agree with him. But it sure is a special time for me, one I'm dedicated to experiencing as often as possible. 

 

This time of year, it is still dark when I rise, allowing time for a little lectio divina until the sky begins to brighten. I then bundle myself up in however many layers the temperature and wind advise, and I'm on my way. And it is sheer joy. Of course I'm particularly elated if clouds are arranged in just the right pattern and depth to display dazzling colors, and I do try to time my walk for the best chance of being thus gifted. But truly, I've never met a dawn I didn't like. Colorful or grey, clear or overcast, windy or calm, cold or warm, wet or dry, vistas opening out for miles or closed in by a fog so thick it is impossible to see more than a few feet ahead~~I love them all.

 

My father, nearly eight years gone now and hopefully enjoying magical vistas of his own, offered the question. Here is my answer~~or answers~~about what is so darn special about the sunrise. 

 

It arrives out of night's quietude, and as I hear and see and feel the quickening of this wild and precious world, I am offered a visceral reminder that the stillness I find at night remains beneath it all. It is an underground stream ever available for a quick dip or complete immersion. It flows beneath me whether I am happy or sad, when things are going as I'd like and when they are not, and regardless of whether I am in harmony or in struggle. So, Father O' Mine, that is my first answer. 

 

While sunset signals the return to the Yin from our sojourn into Yang, sunrise does the opposite. It launches us from the Yin of quiet night into the Yang of the day's activity. And from that comes my second answer. Dawn opens me to the day, announcing the beginning of something altogether new, something that has not yet been. There is a freshness to it, a promise, a chance to start anew. Whatever came of yesterday, at sunrise I stand on the brink of the unknown. And the brightening of the sky, no matter how gray or colorful it might be on a particular day, encourages me to greet that opportunity wholeheartedly, to show up as fully as I can, to make my own offering a worthy one. That is my second answer.

 

My third is that sunrise simply feels different than sunset. Yes, the sky's colors may be the same, but the energy of each is not. The natural world waking up is a different experience from the natural world hunkering down for its time of rest. Sunset encourages me to hunker down myself, to withdraw and to be still, which is a lovely thing. Sunrise, though, calls me out to greet it. It is almost as if I am compelled to do so. 

 

Which brings me to my fourth answer. I truly don't know why I'm a morning person who needs to steep in the dawn. I just know that I am. And who am I to disagree? 

 

Sunrise and sunset are both in~between times when, according to many cultures, the veil is thin between this world and the one that lies beyond it. Bookends linked one to the other, each transitional time offers something special. And these diurnal rhythms have a corollary in the shifting of the seasons. 

 

We are coming up now on the Spring Equinox, which arrives this year on March 20th and will bring us nearly three hours more daylight than we had at the Winter Solstice. A cause of celebration in its own right, eh? And yet it is more than that. Equinoxes, after all, are in~between times too, halfway points between the Yin of winter and the Yang of summer. And when approached consciously, they can inspire us.

 

Spring is a threshold with gifts similar to those of dawn. As we ready ourselves for the leap into the busier time of the year, we can remember that the quietude we found in winter ever remains, humming beneath all the hubbub to come. Just as at dawn, Spring brings us to the brink of something altogether new, tender shoots sprouting and eager for the growth already underway. It encourages a vow to greet whatever comes wholeheartedly and to live it to the best of our ability. 

 

Just as with sunrise and sunset, winter's opening toward spring feels wholly different than autumn's falling back into the arms of darkness. It is time now for us to open up, to step out, to greet what comes. And to receive it fully and with our whole beings, as we marvel at getting to be here in the living of this life. 

 

And just like sunlight spilling across the landscape, we are asked to shine our own light back, and to do so in joy and in gratitude. Yes, let's do that!

Happy Spring, Y'all!

Leia

 

Walking Meditation

 In honor of Thich Nhat Hahn's passing, I offer this essay written following a walking meditation at a retreat in 2009...

We gather in the parking lot, breath visible vapor swirling in the pre~dawn air. Jagged peaks rise on all sides, silhouetted against a lighter sky that still holds stars and the brighter shimmer of a few planets. A tiny Vietnamese woman, dressed in the plain brown robes of her lineage, leads us through gentle stretches as our numbers steadily swell. 

 

At the appointed time, she stops, places palms together, bows to us. We bow in return. She moves slowly through the throng we have become, and is joined by several other brown~clad monastics. We fall in behind them, matching our pace to their slow one. Inhale with one paired step, right and left. Exhale with the next, right and left. Inhale. Exhale. Step by slow step. And so begins this morning’s walking meditation. 

 

We traverse the adjoining parking lot. The only sounds are shoes brushing blacktop, the calls of a few just~waking birds, an occasional cough. We cross the narrow drive, merge onto the footpath that circumnavigates the large field. Sky gradually lightens as we walk. Stars recede, and mountainsides gain depth and texture. 

 

Those in front, far ahead now given the narrowing of the path, come to a standstill. It takes several steps, however, before this stillness passes as a wave through our slender line. Finally, we stop, too. I look up, see the sun’s light touching the craggy tors surrounding us. And then I turn and look behind.

 

A silent line of people stretches far back into the dim light, most having not yet left the parking lot. I didn’t realize there were so many of us! What is it about this long slender cord of humanity walking peacefully, silently, and with full awareness, that brings tears to my eyes? I don’t fully understand it, know only that wonder fills me.

 

Our slow progression resumes. We round the far end of the field and tears spring again. Another graceful line walks slowly, mindfully, silently toward us. Remembering only now that another group was to begin at a different location, I realize that I had only seen half our total before. There must be nearly a thousand of us! Yet it is not the sheer number of participants that touches me so. It is our coming together, this gentle walking in harmony and in gratitude, that brings me awe.

 

We meet at the center of the field. Our two separate lines spontaneously dissolve, individual streams flowing into a common sea. We sit. Outer stillness moves ever more deeply inside. Mountain air fills our lungs, flows out. A bell chimes. We breathe. Sunlight creeps down mountainside. Breathe. Birdsong rises. Breathe. A fresh morning breeze stirs hair, brushes skin. Breathe. A small bird dips suddenly, darts here and there among us just two feet above the ground, flies off again. And still, we breathe.

 

In the experience of this morning, we are not separate beings. Belief in individual drops of water and distinct streams gives way. We recognize that we are, in truth, the ocean. Many drops, one sea. 

 

The bell chimes again. We rise and bow~~to one another, to the beauty of the world around us, to the sea itself that both buoys and suffuses us. Our slow pace resumes as we move toward the meditation hall. Inhale with one paired step, exhale with the next. Inhale. Exhale. Step by slow step.

 

Our day has begun. 

Leia

For a related writing, click here.

 

 

Goodbye, dear Thay

 Zen Master Thich Nhat Hahn died three weeks ago at the age of 95. Born in central Vietnam, Nhat Hanh entered the monastery at the age of 16 to begin the practice of formal meditation and scholarly study. However, his life path was forever altered when war ravaged his country, particularly as it intensified during the 1960's. Engaged Buddhism was the term he coined for this new approach that blended a life of meditation with a commitment to alleviate suffering in the world.

This was meditation~in~action. While rebuilding bombed villages and setting up medical clinics, and while facing the possibility of their own deaths, the nuns and monks meditated. They breathed with an inner calm while building schools and while advocating for peace. 

This approach continued in all of Nhat Hanh’s subsequent activities, including retreats in which formal teachings were actively applied to the most ordinary moments of life. I was fortunate enough to have attended one such retreat led by Thay, an honorific meaning "teacher" in Vietnamese, and two others led by his monastics.

The most effective way to learn a foreign language is the immersion method. Rather than sitting with dictionary and grammar book, one actively lives the language with others. The retreats I attended were similar, though the language was not truly foreign to any of the attendees. It was a language known to us all, one as near as our own breath and as close as this very moment.

In the Thay~led retreat in 2011, 900 of us gathered for five days in magnificent Rocky Mountain National Park. We took part in periods of sitting meditation, though those were not the backbone of the retreat. We meditated continuously, living and breathing the present moment in every act. We were a village of meditators, each one of us committed to being as aware as possible, all of us living the reality that all is one, despite the divisions our earth eyes might see.

While eating, we looked deeply into the food on our plate, seeing sun and rain and numerous living beings reflected there. While walking slowly, we touched the earth with reverence. Listening to daily talks by Thay and others, discussing our experience in small groups, in virtually everything we did, we returned again and again to the spacious qualities of the present moment and the interconnectedness of all life.

Yet it was not bliss alone. The mind can be a tumultuous place. Without the usual methods of distraction and avoidance, habitual patterns of thought and emotion became more obvious. We were encouraged to greet these as opportunities to practice, a chance to transform difficulties while actively nurturing our positive capacities.

As one experience moved into the next, and each day streamed into the one that followed, my inner stillness gradually deepened and an openness to the world around me, simply as it was, grew. When my husband and I took off for a few days of camping following the retreat, I took the experience into the forest. I carry it with me still.

When I studied at a language school in Mexico four decades ago, I was thrilled when I first dreamt in Spanish. I recognized it as evidence that this new language had seeped deep into my core. One night soon after Thay's Retreat ended, I dreamt in the language of awareness. 

A person with whom I’d had a great deal of conflict was speaking in the way I often found offensive. In this dream, I did not react as usual. I saw clearly the pain that gave rise to his behavior and, importantly, recognized this same pain in myself, though it manifests differently. Rather than responding with anger or defensiveness, I breathed with compassion, for him and for me and for us all.  

My immersion program with Thay came to a close nearly eleven years ago. And yet it has never really ended. What was true in those five days remains true today, as it will remain true in all the tomorrows yet to come. We are one. Separation into discreet entities is an illusion. Peace is available to us all. If he and his monastics could live this as war raged around them, you and I can certainly do it now. And in this way, Thay will never die. He will live on in me and in you and in us all. 

Fare thee well, dear Thay. And from the depths of a heart you helped to become more open, more loving, I thank you.

Leia

For a related writing, click here.

Jai guru deva

 I sit at my window this morning, gazing down on the backyard. The trees there, limbs shorn of summertime leaves and silhouetted against the winter sky, have pulled their energy deep into their roots. They know it is time to rest, and rest they do. As is so often the case, the natural world leads by example. If we listen closely, we might even hear its whispered guidance. "Be still. The time for busyness has gone by, and the season for replenishment has come 'round again. Rest, dear one, rest." 

In a recent Washington Post article, health psychologist Kari Leibowitz shares insights gained from having lived a year in Tromsø, Norway, a place where darkness reigns for a good part of the year. Located more than 300 kilometers above the Artic Circle, from December through February the sun offers only a few hours of indirect light each day as it skirts just below the horizon. Makes our nine and a half hours of daylight seem like a veritable feast, doesn't it? 

 

Communities that live each year with months of polar night have developed practices that embrace darkness rather than fight against it. In Scandinavian countries, these are supported by an attitude that permeates the culture and is reflected in the languages of the region. Though the words hygge in Danish and koselig in Norwegian don't directly translate into English, both refer to a sense of coziness and comfort. Applied to polar night, they also reflect an essential first step in developing a friendly relationship with winter's darkness: acceptance. 

 

"Many of us try to pretend nothing has changed when daylight ends earlier," Leibowitz writes." We stick to the same schedules and feel annoyed when we’re more tired, despite (knowing that) daylight influences our circadian rhythms and sleep patterns." And we lament the cold, bemoan the early dusk, and grumble about the restrictions winter places on our activities. Which, of course, doesn't warm, brighten, or free us one bit. In fact, such a stance merely makes the season a burden, rather than the blessing it could be.  

 

How much wiser instead to yield to what is, looking for opportunities to welcome coziness and comfort into our wintertime lives. Nordic countries don't, after all, have a patent on hygee or koselig. Just more experience.

 

Leibowitz explains that indoor lighting is used quite intentionally in these cultures, suggesting that "the key to enjoying the darkness isn’t to banish it by turning on as many lights as possible, (but) to turn the lights down low and invite the darkness in." She encourages us to forgo overhead lights in favor of lamps, candlelight and, if possible, a fire in the hearth, and reports that Tromsø culture is permeated by a conscious use of lighting, with the glow of candlelight evidenced in both cafes and business meetings.

 

My husband and I have engaged in a particular Solstice ritual for the past decade or so. We refer to it as "the lighting of the chilis". Likely intended as Christmas tree decoration, our string of tiny bulbs encased in colorful chilis winds around the archway connecting living room to kitchen. Lit for the first time at twilight on the longest night of the year, we continue the practice until the Spring Equinox delivers us back into longer days. 

 

In honor of hygee, we've now added a salt lamp and, for koselig, a string of delicate white fairy lights winding up the stairway railing. It feels quite nourishing to be immersed in a softer light. It calms and encourages us to, as Leibowitz writes, "embrace the season as an opportunity for quiet, contemplative pursuits." And in so doing, we are better able to open and perceive what our busyness so often masks.

 

These filled-to-the-gills lives of ours are just one infinitesimally small manifestation of that which is too immense for us to fully grasp, an essence that flows through everything just beneath our level of awareness. When we don't fill every available moment with doingness, we can welcome space into our lives and, in the process, become more spacious ourselves. And that opens us a bit more deeply to that boundless and eternal something from which all things flow and have their being. 

 

This holiday season, we've spent more time being still~~reading, talking, and resting in silence. We've also been watching Peter Jackson's documentary on the making of the Beatles' Let It Be album. I hope John doesn't mind my paraphrase of the lyrics of one of his songs.

 

"Sounds of laughter, shades of life are ringing through my open ears, inciting and inviting me across the universe. Limitless undying love shines like a million suns, and calls me on and on across the universe."

 

When our souls are quieted and soothed, we become more permeable to that limitless undying love that shines like a million suns. And we're better able to respond to its call as it rings throughout the universe. 

 

John's song ends with the chanting of Sanskrit words. Jai guru deva roughly translates as "I give thanks." What a lovely way to end a song~~and this offering. It is also a beautiful way to welcome a fresh new year.

Leia

You can find the Washington Post article here.