Like the First Morning

Some mornings, there's a hush in the atmosphere. We can feel it. The earth seems a quiet place, home seems a sacred haven. This is such a morning. As I came down the stairs, it was as if I was seeing things for the first time. My footsteps seemed lighter. The act of making breakfast became a ritual with each movement graced by some inner awareness, that sacred hush.

Life has been a whirlwind of visitors and travel. A new housemate and her pets have moved in as well. Today, well, today I'm alone in a house made more beautiful by the knick knacks artfully placed by my housemate while I was gone. Maybe this is why I'm seeing anew, "like the first morning," if you will.

Or, maybe it's because my heart is full from the travel and the people. I spent my travel time in Reno, not usually the most spiritual mecca. Oddly, this time it was. The cab drivers were friendly wanderers telling fervently tales of the old days in Reno. Strangers reached out to lift my baggage. The sun was shining on the old, amazing mountains in the near distance.

My younger son greeted me with a warm hug and we chattered until all misunderstandings and misadventures were shared and healed. I saw him through my third eye and my earth eyes. I gobbled him up with my eyes in the way that Gwendolyn Brooks says mothers do. I also saw his struggles and his moral victories. We spent a week side-by-side laughing our souls into happiness.

And then there were the high desert mountains. Everywhere you looked, there was a breathtaking vista. To the south were endless brown mountains where the sun had melted the snow. To the north, ah, the north, were snow capped mountains sharply outlined against the sky, sprinkled with evergreens and sage brush. We drove up a dirt road on a sunny day ritualistically stopping to open and close each gate as we progressed. We lurched and labored our way until we turned a corner and came to what they call the Irish valley where two mountains see to be facing each other over a sheer drop. Everything was covered with snow and utterly silent. The sacred hush.

When we arrived at our destination, the mountain top, we were greeted by six enormous dogs not one of which weighed less than 70 pounds. Like cowboys coming home, we faced doggie love and a pot of stew simmering on the back of the wood stove. Another kind of sacrament.

This morning's holy silence, that moment when another world seemed to open up in and around me, maybe extended the many benedictions of the last week or so. Is that how it is? Sometimes we see through the glass clearly in a series of synergistic events that tumble us into the looking glass; sometimes it's just grace. Maybe it's always grace. Roxie

Namaste

Welcome to all the kindred souls who are following this blog. Something tells me things are going to get lively in this place, soon. This is a week of contemplation. I'm on vacation and having many rich and helpful conversations and experiences.

I've reached a decision that I need to revise the way I live my life to be more intentional. That decision relates to blogging, exercise, and meditation. I'm in Nevada where the mountains are snow covered all the way to the horizon and the ravines drop to the middle of the earth. It's heart-stoppingly beautiful. I'm grateful for the drama of northwestern nature. It doesn't do damage; it just stands there so varied and beautiful that you can look at it forever.

Thinking about forever, we went to see a show about Black Holes at the local planetarium. Dude, what ARE these terrifying natural occurances? How can it be that matter sucks in on itself so intensely that it swallows itself and disintegrates. It's like bad science fiction. Everything we know regenerates into something else. Can there BE something like a black hole that doesn't regenerate, that goes into nothingness and doesn't return? The spiritual loop hole is the "worm hole" concept. Maybe, there is a tunnel of sorts from the black hole to a white something or other in another plane that is generating life.

My son and I sat at a picnic table in the sun and said simultaneously, "I can't wrap my mind around black holes."

On the other hand, Big Dude, how amazing that there exists something so magnificent, something generating its own laws and forces, something that we CAN'T understand or even approach. Poet Wendell Berry celebrates the darkness and the unknown for the humility and awe these generate in us. That's how I feel about the Nevada landscape and the dark places in space. They leave our minds floundering and our spirits bowed. Roxie

Chaos, Comfort, and Compost: Welcome to the Human Condition

Sometimes a series of external events mirrors a stirring in our soul, unrecognizable in its early stages. Perhaps we find ourselves excessively angry with our children. Perhaps we deplore the helplessness we see in a friend or family member. Perhaps we are overwhelmed by what seem like chaotic happenings in our life. The trouble with "soul messages" is that they rarely come to us directly. Perhaps they don't want to be ambushed and taken hostage by our minds.

This month, I've been plagued by chaotic happenings over which I experience little control. From a leaking roof and little springs of water gushing from various places in the ceiling and walls to an outrageous income tax bill, life suddenly came at me from so many unexpected directions that I felt helpless and out of control.

This wicked earthquake of events culminated in two instances when I acted impulsively and without my normal filters and caution. In both cases, I said something I wished I hadn't. Upon reflection, I realize that the external chaos had moved within. I lost touch with my loving center and began taking cheap and quick shots at others.

Why is it that we sometimes are more inclined to think ill of others than well? Almost certainly it is because we are actually thinking ill of ourselves. I don't know how to fix that kind of chaos. I don't know how to make up for a negative balance in the self-love column. It seems like a vicious circle. I don't love myself and so I don't attract love. That's a universal law of life, isn't it? What a terrible law! Who most needs love? The one who doesn't feel loved, right? In my minimally damaging sniping at others, am I not asking if not begging not to be sniped at in return. Am I not asking for love?

I think about Shakespeare's Shylock crying out, "If you scratch me, do I not bleed?" In the laws of the land, Shylock had to forfeit a "pound of flesh" for his offence. But the ruler of that Shakespearean land lived more by mercy than justice; he forgave the debt. That makes me think about the soft heart of the good shepherd looking for a lost sheep in the night.

I eventually figured out how to manage the leaky ceiling and the overwhelming tax bill. External crises I can handle. I have no idea how to fix the leaks in my soul, the heavy spiritual bills that are coming due. Why is that? Maybe I can't fix them. Maybe I have to wait to be forgiven my debt, for the shepherd to find me.

So, I light a candle and sit quietly watching my mind pick at my spirit. Watching gushers of self-doubt erupt within me. I watch my mind impose its inexorable judgments upon my soul and the fines that it levies seem too heavy to bear. I am awash in despair.

Big Dude, why is it sometimes so hard to find our way to you? Like some dark warlord, you just seem to melt into the darkness leaving us without comfort or grace. Why do our souls just seep out from under us sometimes? What's up with all this inner and outer chaos? Stop! Don't give me any holy crap about how you created life itself out of just such a messy kind of darkness. I'm not buying the creation myth today. I'm not buying it.

I am sitting here with a candle just barely smelling the yeasty, incubating dark hope of the human condition.

Snow and Water and Rain, Oh My!

I've been sitting here listening to the dripping of water from the leaks in my ceiling, watching the snow grow deeper and deeper. How complacent we who have homes become even in the face of natural disasters!

Most of the US is experiencing one of its biggest, widest, and most fierce snow storms. All life outside of the home is cancelled--no work, no school, sometimes no roads or power. I am awash with gratitude for my home even with its leaky ceiling.

Do you ever wonder about the cycle of the seasons, however they occur where you live? The obvious connection is to the human life cycle. Egocentric, we think most things are here to teach us about human life. And that's probably true, but it's not all.

Although there's probably meaning in the rhythm of all this, it could be random. It also could be quantum--having an order that we don't comprehend at all. Not logical or symmetrical for those are concepts that we invented to make manageable meaning out of mysteries.

Did you ever think that there are far more unexplained phenomena than explained ones? That there are mysterious healings and remissions for no known reason? That there are heart attacks without cause, randomly attributed to stress or adrenaline? Lost, we create names and purposes and causal relationships in the face of the most overwhelming and chaotic natural occurances.

So, I'm thinking about all this snow. It defies the limits of my reason to imagine that it actually will melt. I used to run a children's camp in the middle of rural Michigan. The children got trapped at the camp one year because a terrible blizzard completely isolated it from the outside world. We had no power, the snow drifts were over the buildings and to the tree tops. Sara, age 10, was crying and I went over to her. "What's wrong?" I asked. She said, "I'm thinking it's the coming of an ice age and I'll never see my parents again."

I reassured her that it was just a storm and it would pass. Of course, it did pass and the children eventually were restored to their families.

Young and glib, I believed my own words that it would pass. Today, I wonder if her instincts were right. Maybe something bigger than my mind can imagine is at work, manifesting in catastrophic weather patterns and natural disasters. I'm not denying the cycle of the seasons. I'm wondering if that's a small cycle within a much bigger, unrecognizable pattern.

Like the heart attack for no known reason, is the overload of snow, water, and eventually rain more than it seems? My Buddhist self says, "It is what it is, breathe." I'm not so sure. I'm not so sure.

Sometime, imprisoned in our lodgings, we are as much at risk as those who are out battling the storms. We are a risk of a failure of imagination, of a failure of heart and nerve. Living behind walls and seeing out of windows is truly viewing the Divine itself "through a glass darkly." We like to think of the Divine as a person, a bigger human, someone who thinks and feels as we do only more so, maybe better. It's comforting to think there is a lovingly cranky Being watching over this natural world and its creatures. Hemingway's novel, The Sun Also Rises ends with the line "Isn't it pretty to think so?" It is pretty and comforting to think everything will be alright.

The trouble is that when I reassured that child and when we reassure ourselves, we are hoping for a good outcome on human terms. We hope the storm will pass, we'll survive the heart attack, and we'll be safe and well. I do think we'll be alright (I can't help it!) but I'm pretty sure that I don't know what that means in real terms. Clearly, we're all going to die and, in some sense, this is not alright. I can't help believing,however, that it's also going to be alright, right in a sense that reason can't help me with.

My favorite way to think of meaning uses the particle and the wave from physics. If I'm thinking of myself as a particle, then I think of myself as a separate entity and I fear my demise, the loss of my sense of self, the loss of what I experience as my existence. If I'm thinking of myself as a wave, then I know that I sometimes and briefly get to raise up out of the water and look around. As a wave, I know that human life is just looking around.

As a wave, I know I'm made up of water and I don't fear subsiding back into the ocean. Sitting on the couch listening to the water dripping watching the snow bury my car and windowsills, I'm trying to remember I'm a wave. I'm water and snow and rain. Oh my.

Mind Meets Mystery

The last few nights, the moon has been exceptionally bright in the northeast. It shines through my skylight and takes me by surprise. It gives me pause.

Those moments of pause are both breath-taking and terrifying. If we really stop and apprehend the universe, never mind God, we are reduced to amazement. Some mornings, I stay in bed and ponder sacred mysteries. Lately, probably because of the moon, I've been trying to imagine the galaxies and galaxies stretching out beyond the realm of science. I hit a wall. My mind balks in the face of infinity.

I wonder if the universe has an end, outer limits, or whether it goes on forever. I'm talking about the physical realm here, not the spiritual. Being human, I can't imagine things without beginnings or endings. Maybe this is why evolution has so much appeal in the mystery of creation. It gives a beginning and a fairly neat progression from that beginning up to the present. I can't help but think that this is the constructed knowledge of human reason.

In such reflection, I realize that the heart apprehends mystery. Reason MUST make meaning and find connections. These meanings and connections, therefore, are limited by the mind's ability to know them. When we hit a wall or slide into a black hole, we give up intellectual control and recognize reality directly unmediated by rational knowledge.

I don't know what this means. Meaning is irrelevant in the realm of mystery. The most I can say is that I'm aware that I don't know. I've cited Joe and the Volcano once before. When he stands at the edge of this fiery monster, Joe says, "99% of us are asleep; the others are amazed." And so it is for me as I watch the moon through the skylight. Roxie

Some of the Glasses Are Full

Sometimes, the glass IS half-empty.

If we are relying on one glass to provide all the sustenance we need in life, it will not only be half-empty, it will be entirely empty. We will drain it of its nectar on a regular basis.

This lesson was brought home to me this week. On Thursday night, I encountered a particularly negative young woman who poured her critical observations over me and left me feeling hurt and angry. I went home and did a lot of self-talk. I reminded myself of the good things that others had said, I asked the Big Dude for help, I raged and wept.

Eventually, I was able to let it go. I recognized on some level that my self worth couldn't be defined by any one moment of criticism or any one moment of praise. What then?

The next morning, a young man that I hadn't had many personal interactions with told me that he would miss me and he loved me. I received a great gift of love from the young person, yes, but of wisdom from the Big Dude as well.

Think of the half-full/half-empty metaphor this way. We don't have just one glass. We have a table full of glasses. Some are empty, some full, some in the middle. When we are thirsty, we tend to reach for our special glass or mug. Sometimes it's empty. If we think of our many glasses, then there's always a full one within reach to comfort us.

Although, once in awhile, someone comes along and empties our special glass, the next moment a veritable stranger may lovingly hand us a totally new and full one to add to the table. Roxie

A Child Is Born

Having the "Big Dude" as CGOD (Chief God on Duty) bypasses the whole winter holiday confusion. Is it Christmas? Hannukah? Kwanza? You know what I mean. In my personal life, I celebrate Christmas because that's my family's tradition.

The "Big Dude's" winter holiday, though, is bigger than any one tradition. The winter holiday recognizes that at various places and various times, the relationship of the earth and the sun becomes shaky. Darkness settles back over much of the earth and we, humans, need massive doses of "light" to see us through.

Northern Europeans built giant bonfires. Early Americans went to great lengths to preserve the fire in the hearth. People lit hovels and drafty old palaces with candles and fireplaces. Other people warmed their tepees and huts with open flames, smoke escaping through a slit in the peaked roofs. Even in more temperate climates, winter brings change. Foliage changes color even if it doesn't drop off. Birds and animals change their patterns or migrate. The sun, if you're lucky enough to have it, slants in at a different angle and disappears sooner.

We can't deal with that very well. By December or January in the northern hemisphere especially, we are craving relief! Ancient people craved it and so do we. Ipods and Blackberries can't delete the primal fear of being alone in the dark.

So, we need a god in winter. We can be careless and let our spirituality slide in summer but, come winter, we need a god! Along comes the Winter Solstice, Christmas, Hannukah, and the rest. Not only do we get various iterations of God, we get to celebrate as well. The cultures of the world, over time, developed these celebrations to bring life back metaphorically, to bring us all together to feast and pray, and to light our lives with every variation of fire. We flock to our spiritual meccas in greater numbers during the winter holiday than at any other time of year. We know what we need and we seek it out. Like the wise men who came to see Jesus, we follow our star. We re-light the Menorrah of our spiritual life. We build the bonfire of our own solstice.

The CGOD or Big Dude gets to enjoy all the traditions. He isn't bound to any one culture's spiritual preferences. When it comes to sacred shit like winter darkness, he comes to all the parties!

While each of us needs to honor our own sacred traditions,it might not hurt to remember all the ways that our brothers and sisters around the world are celebrating the same things we celebrate: Family, new life, lighting the world. It's amazing to realize that we're one tiny speck in the parade of ancestors and cultures who are celebrating light in the season of darkness, birth in a time of death or stasis in the natural world.

I heart Christmas. I love the idea of a newborn baby, king, God. But, I also like the rhythm of nature that brings darkness back every year and then sends some kind of spiritual light to comfort and guide us. Such a good plan. Ingenious, really. You rock, Big Dude! Roxie