The "Gift" of Sleep

My question to Cara, the higher self, this morning was: Speak to me of sleep. After several fitful nights, I don't find myself spiritually inclined. I want to read a good book and drift away the day. Alas, the day is filled with activities

Sitting in my white wicker rocker with my legs crossed in my aging version of a meditation pose, I still my mind and watch the wind move leaves and even trees around as it will. I remember that my meditation coach suggested each of us create a sanctuary and I know at once that nature is and has always been my sanctuary. And so I continue watching for signs of the wind through my living room sliders.

Cara says, "Sleep is a gift from the gods and a mystery to the ego."

I feel relief. When sleepless, I am inclined to feel at fault as though with more effort, I could make it happen. I need to ask the gods for sleep as I would for anything else when desperate. Not my fault. Not my fault, I whisper joyfully.

But Cara's not finished; she speaks again, "Sleeplessness may also be a gift." Hmmm. I don't always like the higher self OR the gods. But, so it is. Anne

Boundaries

I learned this morning that soul energy doesn't need boundaries. Sitting in meditation, my little local energy was frittering off in multiple directions. Towards the dog, other people in the house, and towards the future. I felt surrounded by vampires who were sucking the life out of me.

I often feel that the energy of others immediately begins to deplete my energy. Like a shapeshifter, I fit myself around the attractions and disactions around me.

So, I have established artificial boundaries to protect myself. I won't sleep at anyone's house. I protect my physical space fiercely; it feels like a matter of life and death to my ego, alas.

The insight that soul energy doesn't need boundaries rocked my world. I see that standing in the soul's energy field, I am safe no matter what the needs of strong personalities around me. Looking out, I notice the house across the way is bathed in the glow of winter sun, muted into a matte finish. Kind of like soul glow, natural, effortless, barely noticeable. Transformative, though. Anne

Speak to Me of Mothering

The meditation format I encountered at a workshop last week brings spiritual practice into a venue I can use on a daily basis. It consists of sitting in meditation and writing down a question or topic, then focusing on the breath until you feel moved to write a response. It's a form of channeling. Then, there's a twist. You write back to the higher energy or being that sent you the response.

In my case, I've dubbed this higher being, Cara (beloved in Italian). For many years, I thought of Cara as a kind of spirit guide or guardian angel. I find, today, that she's within me, possibly my higher self.

The first time I posed a question in this meditation format, it felt fake until I wrote the words "Speak to me of . . ." I want to honor the book, The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran from which this phrase comes. I haven't thought of it in years but I find that I have almost memorized most of the entries as I speak my questions.

This morning I asked Cara to speak to me of children; after breathing for awhile, I changed it to: Speak to me of mothering. After some time, the answer came, "Mothering is an illusion of perfection. Think bigger."

Filled with gratitude, I recognize my standard for my own mothering is perfection, a standard much in question. My standard for my mother was perfection as well. Mothers, clearly, should be perfect in my limited concept. Bigger, she said. My standard for how life SHOULD treat me is perfection.

I see the error of my ways. Expectations mean that no one and nothing can be enough. Nor can I.

The Prophet wrote of children: "Your children are not your children; they are the sons and daughters of life. They come through you but are not of you." Mothering is taking care of someone who temporarily can't take care of itself. That's all. And so it is. Anne

Oh the Pain!

Often, physical life throws us curve balls. We get cancer or have a heart attack, we break a bone, or we experience chronic pain. What is a spiritual response to these physical realities?

Well, let's start with our regular, human response. We may be shocked, enraged, terrified! We may feel isolated and alone with our situation and our feelings. Prayer or meditation may be small comforts when we feel this way. It's ok to have these human reactions. We ARE human!

Eventually, though, if we want to go on and make meaning out of what seems like a travesty or even like a personal attack from a vengeful god, we begin to try other ways to cope.

Maybe we DO pray or meditate. Maybe we read something inspirational. Maybe we talk to others who have survived our situation. Maybe we find a support group online. Just taking an action is the first step.

I struggle with many physical challenges; this morning I awoke from a sleep made restless by my chronic pain. I sat down to meditate and found myself really resistant. I was avoiding acceptance, even awareness, of my pain. As is my habit, I posed a question to my higher self as a way to anchor my meditation. I wrote: Speak to me of loneliness. I breathed for a few moments and then scratched out "loneliness" and wrote the real word on my mind, "pain." Speak to me about pain.

Ahhhh. That felt right. Snow blew and danced around the edges of my house. A crow floated around the sky. A squirrel was picking at seeds that scattered the ground. Cara, my higher self, said, "They are focused on this task, this day."

Deep breath. On this one day, I can do my tasks. I read somewhere that detachment is doing the next thing and not worrying about outcomes. I'm going to bake an apple pie, Cara. And so it is. Anne

Lineage

Morning after a restless night. I go to my meditation chair and settle in for the first time in many months. I pose a question to my Higher Self. "Cara," I say, "Speak to me about fear."

After many minutes of focus on the breath and awareness of many thoughts swirling in and out of my mind, Cara speaks.

"The ego fears. The 'local self' speaks of death, and failure and the fading of the body."

Because this is part of a workshop that I am taking, I then write back to Cara.

"Cara,
Thank you for reminding me. If I am going to be soooo fond of my local self, I am going to feel fear often. Help me to let your voice and your lineage shape my body, mind and soul. And so it is. Anne"

The word lineage takes hold of me. The idea that my higher self, Cara, has a lineage more powerful and as real as my local self melts my heart. I envision the spiritual entities unfolding over many dimensions into my Cara, all these spiritual ancestors in a sacred circle around the instantiation of this local self, this ego, this physical classroom and its inhabitant, named Anne.

In my physical lineage, I experience in my own body and mind, the manifestation that is Lucille, my physical mother. She, too, suffered from chronic, debilitating pain. She, too, suffered from emotional intensity so painful at times that she lost the bonds of reality, and her local self rejected mine. For a moment, I felt Lucille inside of me along with Cara. My psycho/physical heritage and my psycho/spiritual one together.

And so it is. Anne

Readers, Tell Me What To Do!

What do you do when you're watching someone you love throw away her life? Or, at least, it seems that way. A very young teen whom I love dearly just announced her "engagement" on Facebook to a very young boy (both are under age). How many times in the course of a lifetime do we experience that helpless moment when our blood pressure shoots up, the migraine starts, or the brain goes numb in the face of what looks like a bad choice by a loved one.

Having posed the question, I sit in silence having no easy answer. Prayer comes to mind. Meditation. Letting go. All of these are good things but I'm still stuck at the "she's ruining her life" moment of shock and disbelief.

I'm getting nowhere here. Please, readers, tell me what to do. Roxie

And the Beat Goes On

The Course in Miracles says there are only two basic emotions: love and fear. It further declares that if you're feeling one, you can't be feeling the other. I wonder if that's true. Maybe there are rare moments when we are so fully in the love, that we have no other reality. Maybe there are also moments when we are so fully in the fear, that we see nothing else.

In my own life, there have been such absolutes. When I'm in love with a human, life is transformed. That can also happen when I'm in "the Love" as I experience a sunset or some other natural phenomenon. Likewise I know times when I'm drowning in "the Fear," when having to answer the phone or fill the gas tank makes me quake.

There are manifold paths in and out of these extreme states of bliss and terror. What about the rest of our life when love and fear are intermingled in millions of mutations and permutations, millions of variations on a theme. That comingled dance seems more common in the multiple realities of the human narrative.

The guides and maps in, out, and through the human condition are worth considering. While I am mostly Buddhist in my spiritual outlook, it is infused with my Christian heritage (and, alas, also with my old school Catholic heritage of sin and scrupulosity). Over the years, I've also been influenced by the 12-Step approach to human foibles. I think of this approach as spiritual boot camp, not for the faint of heart!

Recently, I've been attending one such group, more gentle of spirit, more focused on personal growth than on prohibitions. In the process, I've acquired a sponsor with the vigilance of a warrior and the heart of a fellow traveler. I find myself with mixed feelings about the 12-Step process even in such a guise of kindness.

It, like the Course in Miracles, presumes the either/or paradigm. Love or fear. Self-medicating or not. Substance abuse or sobriety. Any other way of looking at things is seen as a rationalization. Call it what you will, I'm not sure that works for me. In this blog and in my life, I presume the human condition means a lot of time in "sacred shit." Sacred shit encompasses both ends of the spectrum and everything between. It includes love and fear exquisitely blended, with hate, compassion, rage, greed, generosity, and loneliness folded in. This is the compost of the human condition. From and through this grows the human, anchored and nourished by the smelly confusion of the earth, reaching outward by some natural internal instinct towards fulfillment and regeneration of its sacred seed.

I'm happy for all the spiritual traditions and guides. I walk as comfortably with a 12-stepper as I do with a Southern Baptist. Both assume a kind of rightness that can too easily slide into righteousness, but both also have inspiration and common sense within their guidebooks. I'll take the hand of anyone who offers it in a spirit of fellowship and kindness. While I doubt any clarity that can neatly divide the human experience into this OR that, I embrace the questing human soul struggling to assert meaning as it flounders through the sacred shit of this oh-so-physical spiritual life.

I'm hoping that love AND fear embrace and teach each other. I'm hoping that no part of us goes without blessing, even when we slide into an addiction or curl up in mortal terror. I stand with the Buddhists in thinking neither loving thoughts nor fearful thoughts are better or worse. They slide in and out of us at quantum speeds and all we can do is be aware of the inner commotion. Enlightenment, may it be so, stands with all the elements and from this rooted spot is unfolding in ways we can't imagine or find words to say. Such is the rhythm as I feel it. Roxie