Tag: Spirituality

This Little Light of Mine

~ Deb ~ 1 Comment

(Image: “The Energy Flow of Meditation,” by giorjoe.  Source: DeviantArt)

This post was supposed to be about politics.  I made a few notes over the past couple of days with the intention of writing about politics as our national religion.  One note said, “Until politics is no longer our religion, until our party is no longer our sect, we will continue to wage a holy bipartisan war with each other.”  I had several pithy comments rolling around in my brain about the altar call of biased media, the evangelical fervor of party leaders, and the heaven or hell choice each side paints the positions to be.  I was chewing on a truly remarkable idea about the crucifixion of conscience while a herd of Pontius Pilates washed their hands and a gang of Judases counted their money.  It promised to be a jeremiad of legendary proportions.

And then I went to church.

Today we installed the new leadership council at Unity of Music City.  Fifteen people (fourteen of them women) stood on stage holding a candle and singing, “I am a light in this world.”  It was a moving and transformative experience.  Describing it cannot do it justice, for what was most profound was the energy in that moment.  Our entire spiritual community is focused on being a force for good in this new year, and I was privileged and humbled to be standing shoulder to shoulder with those who would hold the sacred space for that vision to become action.

I was, quite frankly, riding a little high.  I came home from church and checked the mail I had ignored since earlier in the week.  Inside was a present from some good friends, and they don’t yet know how perfect it was.  As I was walking into my apartment, I received a text message.  It was from my decades-long BFF who I don’t really see anymore and who I rarely talk to, but I know is always there.  The text said, “Just wanted you to know I was thinking of you.  Love you.”

Then I meditated.

Now I’m baking an apple pie.

Do I really need to close the circle of logic for you here?  I have absolutely no energy for a discussion of politics.  Not even a detached, enlightened one where I play at being observer and not participant.  Not even a theoretical one.  Not even a funny one.

In churches and schools and clubs and organizations and movements and NGO’s and various other tribes the land over, people pick up the mantle of leadership and love and duty and calling every single day.  In any given moment, a significant army are devoting themselves to be a force for good.   Those are the people I want to talk about.

Let me make one thing clear — this isn’t about burying heads in the sand and ignoring reality.  Being a force for good means you are ready to stand and march and advocate.  But I know that I know that I know that attention is the fertilizer of reality.  What we focus on grows.

So I’m not writing about politics.  I’m writing about love and intention.

There is another note I have in my journal.  My good friend and minister, Denise Yeargin, shared this with us this morning in church.  “No matter how dark an experience might be, I look up and experience the light.”

I have the choice.  I choose the light.

Duck, Duck, Duck, Zen

~ Deb ~ Leave a comment

My good friend and sherpa-guru, Denise, recently reminded me of the spiral quality of the spiritual path.  The idea is that the journey is not a straight line or even a chaotic one; it’s a purposeful and patterned returning and returning and returning to constant themes throughout our lives, each time seeing them from a higher place.

This might show up in our emotional work in this way: We visit a therapist in our 20’s to work through a particular emotional pain.  We journal and scream and talk and cry it all out until we feel a release.  It’s gone!  We’re light and happy and free.  Life is beautiful.  Until a year later when the same old shit pops up again.  It might seem we wasted all of that time, energy, and money.  But if we’re really aware, we recognize that we’re seeing the old pain from a slightly different perspective.  We’re a floor up in our spirit, but we’ve circled back around to the same side of the building.

The spiritual journey follows a similar stairway to heaven, and I’ve gone round and round.  I’ve learned to recognize different levels (“fifth floor: ladies lingerie, peace of mind”).  An early level is one I call:

Practice-Practice-Practice-Forget About It

Actually, there are at least two preceding levels: Practice-Forget-Forget-Forget, and Practice-Forget-Practice-Forget.  But, we can talk about all three together.

The practice is our spiritual work.  It looks different for each of us.  My practice is meditation, yoga, engagement with my spiritual community, reading, walks in nature, and general mindfulness.  Some people practice with prayer, church/synagogue/temple, playing tic-tac-toe.  Literally ANYTHING can be part of a practice if you have imbued it with that energy.

Early on the journey, I had really great intentions.  (Pause for delayed laughter.) I knew what called to me, but I hadn’t quite found the groove.  I worked at it.  Boy, did I work at it.  And I would forget it, sometimes for weeks, sometimes for months, and at least a time or two for years.  It took getting beyond those levels to really see how important the forget-about-it times were.  Those were the incubation periods.

Then came the next level:

Practice-Practice-Practice-Wander In The Wilderness

Until we completely purge our inner victim, we’re destined to periodically wail into the heavens, “My God, My God, why has thou forsaken me?” This is done with a flourish of great drama.  This is the level on which we find ourselves saying things like “But I’ve been doing my work; really I have.  Why does God let this HAPPEN?” (Wail, moan, general gnashing of teeth.)

This, too, is an important time.  I believe Jesus may have been on this spiral when he spent his 40 days in the desert.  It’s the level where we wrestle with angels . . . and devils.  At times, we threaten to scrap it all and live our entire lives in happy hour at the beach.  We are tempted to buy happiness by giving up the hope of joy.

The most important moments of transformation happen here.  We make a decision: keep climbing or jump over the rail.  What we don’t realize is that jumping over the rail only puts us back into a forget-about-it state.  We WILL be back.  We can’t un-know what has been revealed to us.

Eventually we reach a new landing:

Practice-Practice-Practice-Practice

We’ve achieved consistency.  We walk our talk.  Life still presents challenges, but these are much rarer, and we tend to view them from a place of detachment.  This doesn’t mean we don’t care; in fact, we have learned compassion at levels we’ve never known before.  We just don’t internalize pain so readily.

This is a beautiful level.  It can also be exhausting.  The practice brings peace, but in those 3:00 a.m. moments when no one is watching and we’ve dared to be really honest with ourselves, we still sometimes wonder, “What’s the point?  IS there a point?  Is something supposed to HAPPEN? Is this IT?”

And then magic happens.  It happens because of our practice.  It happens in spite of our practice.  It happens most often in those 3:00 a.m. moments of heart-opening honesty.

The magic doesn’t have a level.  It dances around the spiral like pixie-dust and star stuff.  It waits until we’re ready.  And then it teaches us the next step:

Practice-Practice-Practice-Surrender

Every great religion teaches it.  Every great master has done it.  Every enlightened being lives it.

How do we know God?  How do we align with Divine Mind?  How do we step into the One-Ness?  We. Stop. Practicing.  At least for a moment.  We stop everything.  We release.  We let go.

We surrender.

Much like the early levels, I’m sure there are some additional levels here, and perhaps the place of true bliss is one of surrender-surrender-surrender-surrender.

Maybe there is even something after that.  I’ll let you know.  I’m still climbing.

Elect to Love

~ Deb ~ Leave a comment

“It’s really a wonder I haven’t dropped all of my ideals, because they seem so absurd and impossible to carry out.  Yet I keep them, because in spite of everything I still believe that people are really good at heart.”  ~ ~ Anne Frank

Like so many others, I woke up this morning enveloped with despair.  How could this be?  What didn’t we do?  What does this say about us?  Something that seemed so certain slipped out of our fingers as surely as if we were trying to clutch at vapor.  And then, along the way, there have been moments of such sweet serendipity that I have been moved to tears in their preciousness.

One of my first acts of the day was posting something to Facebook.  It was my attempt to set the tone for how I would respond to our new reality.  I wanted to convey a peaceful resolve.  A family member from the other side of the political spectrum commented in appreciation for my stance.  We sent a few kindhearted messages back and forth.  I asked for his help; after all, his party won, and those in my tribe need folks like him more than ever now to hold our new leader to the highest standard.  He assured me he would do so.  And then he wrote, “Deb, I lock arms with you.”

At first, I admit, I felt the internal confusion that comes from seemingly mixed messages. I wanted to say, “How can you cast your support in the direction of one who promises to restrict and remove my freedoms and then say that you lock arms with me?”

And immediately a new thought fell in line behind that one.  I realized that I had a choice.  I could chew on the mixed message or I could savor the sentiment of unity.   I could focus on the confusion or I could focus on the connection.

In every moment, we are called to be better people.  We are called to love each other with a spiritual fire.  We are called to shine a light on the best in each other; and we are called to remind each other that everything else is not the truth of us.  We are called to inspire and uplift and encourage.

But also in every moment we are given another option.  We can dive into the depths of suspicion and discontent.  In every single opportunity we have to shine, we can decide on the darkness.

We have to choose.

I gathered my students in a circle this morning and talked to them openly and honestly about this election, about the fear a lot of people have, and about the personal impact it has on me as a lesbian.  I told them that nothing about this election can take away our freedom to decide each morning just how we want to show up in our world.  I told them that love is still stronger than fear.  I told them that love comes a lot easier when your side wins, but the love that you have to reach into the depths of your soul for and muster in the face of defeat is the one that is actually, bygod, love.  And I told them that no matter how they feel today, whether joyous or forlorn, we’re all still going to make it through.

In other words, I told them that I lock arms with them.  And we all felt a little better, a little safer, and a little more assured that everything would be okay.

Food for Future Years

~ Deb ~ 4 Comments

(A poem inspired by William Wordsworth’s

“Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey”)

Today I lectured on Wordsworth.

“Lectured” – pshaw!

I strutted and crowed and danced on the balls of my feet.

I pathetically attempted to convey the ebullience

that eddied through my softened heart

in much the same way that the poet seemed to reach beyond his reach

to corral with words that moment when we

“see into the life of things.”

I spoke of nature and meditation

and the place of wisdom that lives beyond consciousness.

I stretched synonyms and cajoled imagery

to see if any words were worth

the moment of experience

when soul touches soul,

mind touches nature,

all that is touches all I am.

I lifted my arms, my eyes, my voice,

as I tried to carry a roomful

of baby scholars

to the banks of the River Wye.

I engaged every descriptive power

I have ever possessed

to give them just a whisper of an idea

about the presence, the sense, the spirit

which lives in the blissful moment of

pure connection,

and which the poet

dared to attempt to explain

though he knew better than all of us

how futile that effort would surely be.

I tried.  Oh, how I tried.

And then I looked at the rows of faces,

some blank and unreadable,

but some smiling, some nodding,

some radiating the knowing,

and I knew.

I had not transported them to Tintern Abbey.

We had traveled together to this moment,

a moment of pure connection,

that the poet would reach beyond reach

to dare to attempt to explain.