spiraling

i’ve long loved spirals. they represent to me an ongoing process of growth that returns, again and again to its origins. lately, i see myself spiraling. not in an out-of-control way (although sometimes it does feel like that!) but in the sense of circling back to a core place, with the same core questions and contemplations.

today, i stumbled on this blog post i wrote almost exactly five years ago, Notes from the Mainstream. then, i worked for higher education; now, i do not. my work is the same and it is different. i am the same and i am different. i bring new insight and learn from my old self. all at once.

the spiraling has brought nuance to my core question: how do i remain whole so that my actions are in service of the whole?

for now, wanting to just notice this spiraling. a calling back to my Self. with a deepening and widening perspective all the while.

suffering

My heart has been heavy this week.

I’ve spent some time considering why. Honestly, I’m not sure, exactly. And I’m learning to be okay with not knowing. I don’t need to understand. I don’t need to try to solve my sadness, or to fix it.

In fact, my tendency to want to do this–to get at the root of my own suffering–pulls me away from it. Pulls me away into my mind, where I ruminate on the past and theorize about the future. And while this maybe sounds like a good thing, it’s actually not helpful. We need to be present to our suffering, to feel it and fully experience it. This presence invites Wholeness, Holiness.

The thing with being present to suffering is that first, I have to notice it and allow myself to experience it. These days, in all our busyness, this isn’t an easy thing. We need time and space. A strange commentary of the state of affairs: we need time and space to be with ourselves and to feel what we feel. And yet, so true.

Just yesterday, in two separate conversations, when friends spoke of things happening in their lives, they were surprised by their tears, by the emotions that arose as they touched on what was bubbling underneath, all along.

Today, Good Friday, the day Christ suffered on the cross, I am thankful for this Christian tradition. Today, this day invites me to remember the sacred role suffering plays in transformation. Today reminds me of the power of being with suffering.

What if, when we touch on something tender, we simply stay with that tenderness? Instead of turning away and running (to a glass of wine, Netflix, another topic of conversation, a theory as to why, or a solution that will fix it), we tend to the tenderness?

Tending is not fixing. Tending is holding, caring.

And that is all. And that is enough.

an ode to warriorship

a year ago
i said yes to an invitation
that only my soul understood

to join with others
broken-hearted by the suffering of our world
open-hearted to the joy of our world
who shared faith in power unleashed through right relationship

this year has been one of painful unlearning
of letting go of false selves and forms and ego
of grieving hope and answers and truths
of remembering presence and connection and wholeness

how thankful i am that i trusted my soul
and dared to listen to my Self
i said yes and woke up
choosing who i want to be

which is to say i choose to be nobody
a valley rather than a mountain
mystery rather than a brand
free floating rather than attached

funny that a path that feels
so new, so radical
traces back to the beginning of humankind
we only have to forget all we know to remember who we are,

together



Sacred Land Sanctuary in Crestone, Colorado with teachers John Milton and Meg Wheatley

undone

the past couple of weeks, i’ve come undone. this, i know, is life. over and over again, we become undone. the practicing comes in accepting it, being in it, and not retreating in utter fear.

i’m still practicing.

the thing is, all that we’ve learned our entire lives tells us otherwise: to hold on tight. to try harder. to grin and bear it. to be strong. to keep it together. these messages rob us of rich living and dying and in the process, dehumanize us. these messages tell us we are pathetic and incapable and weak for being just as we all…in the words of the great grace lee boggs’, “human human beings.”

so i get this. i’ve learned these lessons before. even still, this time as i practiced, i was surprised by my lack of self-compassion when i started beating myself up. as i transitioned from intense hospital duty with my mom back into life’s routine of kids, work, home, i began destructive self-talk as i started to drown. it got louder and louder. “why can’t you just let go of the dirty house?”; “why did you forget that email?” “you’re being hypersensitive.” “what is wrong with you? get over it. you’re so freaking privileged to have the resources you do.” in a time when i most needed loving-kindness, i met myself and my process of being undone with judgement.

now that i’ve noticed it, i feel lighter. i feel more compassion. i wonder what would it mean to accept being undone with an open heart and trust that from this place will be born life that is already taking shape within me–as a butterfly emerges from its undone cocoon.

i’ll keep practicing.

waiting

for the past ten days, my brother and i have accompanied my mom through test after test, appointment after appointment–126 in total. we have been waiting in limbo-land for life and death information.

waiting at the intersection of life and death, living takes on a realness that is both heavy and liberating.

the heaviness comes with the overwhelm of our human attempts to pin things down. and of course, try we must! after all, there are jobs, children, …responsibilities. there have been moments, feeling stuck here in minnesota in the midst of a blizzard, with my ailing mother, i’ve thought, i can’t just keep waiting here. i have to get home–i have stuff to do. i have meetings on monday! i have to get cat litter! i have to make sure meg gets to her first guitar lesson. after all, this period of waiting and limbo and in-between could go on forever and who knows what we’re going to need down the road? i have to spend my time wisely. yes, i need to go.

and then, reality hits and with it the truth that my mama’s heart is giving up quickly and that minnesota ain’t down the road from home and that this is where i need to be. after all, meetings and cat litter and guitar lessons can wait or go on without me.

and then again, can they? should they? what’s more important? missing meg’s first guitar lesson or waiting with my mom? bailing out on work or waiting with my mom? this is the heaviness of decision-making at the intersection of life and death, where every decision takes on a whole other layer of meaning. more is at stake.

and the joke is, we are always at that intersection. every day, every moment. we forget this truth, with all the business of our lives. and with that forgetting, we lose some of the meaning that adds weight to our decisions, to how we choose to spend our time and energy.

to be honest, i’m kinda grateful we forget! it’s easier. this limbo land of waiting ain’t exactly the most comfortable place to be. it can be exhausting.

mostly, it feels exhausting when i’m flailing around trying to grab hold of something solid. i wear myself out trying to stake my claims and assert my control. essentially, i wear myself out when i fight the present moment. on the other hand, when we can accept where we are and the reality of our situation, a peace sets in. an easiness.

yesterday, i witnessed my mama’s ease with awe. i’ll never forget her fearlessness. as she was prepped for her surgery today, she was being bombarded with all the people and all the interventions, all day. she was starting to grow weary of it all. she wasn’t alone. just as she started to order her food, two other staff entered her room and explained they were there to discuss nutrition. i’m assuming, to address her diabetes. one of them sweetly asked, “is it okay for us to talk with you?”

“oh, we can we talk.” my mom replied. “I’m about to have my second heart surgery tomorrow and so let’s wait. There might not be any need to have talks about nutrition.”

my mama’s truthfulness was a gut punch to these two, well-meaning staff who fumbled and mumbled and slid out of the room. when they left, the three of us broke into hysterical laughter, tears streaming down our faces as we sat squarely at our intersection. a sweet moment of being wholly together, with no pretense separating us. liberation from our delusions that we are ever anywhere else. freedom from our desperate attempts to be elsewhere, where things are planned and comfortable and where we police our own being.

as i sit here in the waiting room of the ICU, waiting for news on my mama, this is what i know to be true:

waiting is where we find God, Spirit, Source. it is in this in-between space, the land of limbo, where we face that we are always, in fact, at this intersection of life and death. this space is exactly where we humbly accept that being present is a place of liberation, where we can hold the joy and suffering of it all.

roy’s song

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The piano man drew me in

With the sweet lullaby he played as a backdrop

To the swift movement of the herds of people.

I sat, thankful for this music

And it’s transformation of this place and space.

 

The man next to me invited piano man

To play Sounds of Silence

And with that, also invited friendship.

Sitting side by side, we were now joined

Together by our love for this music, for this moment.

 

His kind face and wise eyes

Turned to me and offered his story to me,

A story of love and loss and cycles

Returning here again with his wife, Mary

Ready to face the truth, together:

 

He and Mary, married 54 years

With 8 children, 30 grandchildren

77 and 74 years young

Not a perfect marriage, he offered. 

And what is? we laughed.

 

He, a musician himself

Playing lead guitar in a band with 3 of his children

His drummer daughter, with 5 children of her own

“It’s getting harder for us to play…what, with life” he murmured.

“And we’ve had such fun.”

 

The chorus of his story,

“Life’s been good.

We’ve done good.

The kids are good.

We’ll be okay.”

 

With the in-between sounds of silence

That his soul so clearly sang, and which spoke so much.

 

And as I rose to slip back into the herds,

We paused.

“And your first name?” he wondered.

“Amy”, I offered.

“Yes, and mine is Roy.”

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answers

How many times will we be here?

Waiting for answers to questions unknowable

About life and death and suffering and aliveness

 

Looking to strangers for directions on finding  “quality of life”

Alongside those we are bound to, through birth or by choice

Who in those very moments offer all the answers we need:

 

We are together.

Even now, even still.