Attachment Goes Not Gently Away

Great religions and spiritual traditions speak of detachment--letting go of the things of the world for spiritual purposes.  Did you ever try it?  It's so hard!  I first noticed my penchant to cling to the things of the world. Like Dylan Thomas, I am one to "go not gently into that good night."  I cling to my best friend, to my son, to my opinions, to my unique family and history.  Recently, I realized I even cling to my faults and my problems.

Such a problem is my lifetime battle with insomnia.  That started when I was a tiny person.  I would get up and go to the bathroom during the night and then be afraid to go back to bed.  I would sit on the toilet all night waiting for some sound from my parents' room indicating they were awake. At the same time, I was afraid to flush for fear I would wake my Dad and he would be angry with me.  I was awake and terrified until daylight.  I still am sometimes. 

Insomnia shapes my life.  I don't like to travel because it affects my sleep patterns.  I won't stay at other people's houses.  I won't stay anywhere unless I have a bathroom connected to my bedroom.  Naturally, I also won't sleep in the same room or bed with anyone lest I have to use the bathroom or lest I can't sleep all night.  What will they think of me?  Will they love me less because I am not the strong woman they know in the daytime? I have turned down jobs, opportunities to fly to foreign lands on private jets, and even marriage proposals because of my insomnia.

I was reading something about detachment this morning (after a rough night) and the author suggested that detachment doesn't just relate to people but also to problems that you obsess over.  I immediately realized that I obsess over sleep or the lack thereof. What would happen if I turned sleep gently over to the Big D, my higher power.  I envision myself wrapping it gently in gossamer threads, a lumpy package with defiant tendrils trying to escape and come back to me.  I stand before my higher power and, as if pledging my troth, close my eyes and hand over the shapeless mass.  I feel it fall from my hands but I don't know if it was taken lovingly or whether I am imagining my relief.

I don't suppose it will be so simple as giving it over to the higher forces, but recovery and all spiritual guides suggest we "let go."  If you think about it, clinging to anything of the earth is a pointless activity.  Either there is gravity holding us or there isn't.  All the clinging and clutching in the world doesn't make us more securely attached; it just means we can't move about the beautiful earth as easily. I'm letting go, lettting go already.  More to come,  Roxie

Spiritual not Religious!

Well, spirituality today trumps religion, so says a recent poll. Is it laziness or lack of willingness to commit? Is it free thinking? Why are so many of us claiming to be spiritual while not having a religious affiliation? Is it because so many religions have screwed up so badly? Think religious wars, abuse of women and children by religious leaders. Think of hoarded wealth and freely distributed righteousness. So, there's a lot of reasons why folks may be choosing not to be spiritual. There's another side to the story though. Alternative spiritualities and practices are on the rise. Many of us have turned to Zen Buddhism, for example.

What really fascinates me, however, is the rise of the 12-Step movement. Widely thought of as a kind of cure for various addictions, 12-Step groups are also highly spiritual and intentionally not religious. The idea of a "higher power" of each person's understanding permeates all 12-Step work. When you think of the millions of people who participate in one such recovery group or another, we are looking at possibly the largest source of those who might well claim to be spiritual and not religious in the polls.

I am one such person. Being a bit of a Buddhist, an occasional Unitarian, a member of the alternative Unity Church (bringing all spiritual practice together, baby), I've recently become a member of the recovery community. I bow my head in shock and awe at the spiritual power of these groups. My membership in recovery is actually why I haven't posted for so long. I was reluctant to include what is a new and powerful growth process in this alternative spirituality blog. I didn't want to dump the Big Dude. I was afraid I would lose my readers if I truly shared what I'm finding to be a powerful, transformative spirituality. My intellectual self rejects the idea and I worry that yours will too.

Deep breath. When I first went into recovery, it was to help a friend. I was skeptical, doubtful, and sarcastic in my attitude. I didn't want to be there. As time went on, I began to catch glimpses of a different reality. I saw that I was not who I'd always thought I was. I was both far worse and far better. I can't really explain what happened but I will try to speak the spiritual truth I'm observing and experiencing in the recovery rooms.

For starters, take the idea that each person has his/her own higher power, unshared with and untapped by other humans. Kind of like the "guardian angel" concept of some other religions. In a way, it is a kinder, friendlier Big Dude--my own Big D. I can selfishly ask for help or comfort without worrying about the abuse and starvation of other humans who might need the services of a God with broader responsibilities! More to follow. Roxie

Sacred Shit

In each of us dwells the whole human story. We are filled with enough characters, impulses and counter-impulses to populate a planet. The task of our sacred self is to manage the internal landscape of our being. Allied with the Divine, the higher self brings our parts together for the good of the whole.

This is not an easy task. Think about it. We have wounds and joys. Those wounds and joys live within us as voices with deep, deep feeings attached to them. To further complicate the situation, voice and feelings are attached to a narrative. We have stories of what happened to us, what our mother did or didn't do in a particular moment. What our father was like. And those voices are different in memories from different periods of our life.

For example, the voice of my six-year-old period is sad, shocked, and afraid. My six-year-old lived through a moment when her mother showed her true colors, showed that whatever happened to the six year old girl was only valuable to the extent it hurt or reflected well upon the mother. Another, happier voice is that of the three year old. "I want to go," it says confidently, running towards the lake, towards people, towards the woods, towards friends, Confident, laughing, this little girl owns the world and knows nothing can hurt her ever. A third voice is the voice of the adolescent. This young woman is embarassed to smile, afraid to flirt, immensely intellectual, a geekish, awkward thing. She has no mother to teach her or model for her how to grow up. She has begun having menstrual cycles without any idea of what's happening. She thinks maybe the blood means she's dying. She hides a rage big enough to blow up a building.

And then there is what has come to be known as the Adult-Child. The adult body that houses all these memories and voices. That A-C goes to work, to job interviews, gets married, has children, and grows old. It just never grows up. It has six, and three, and 15 year old reactions to adult situations. Chaos lives within the Adult-Child.

This is the essence of sacred shit. Many of us never know life beyond it. Many of us never know that sacred shit is compost and makes things grow better than anything else. It is the job of the higher self, the uber gardener, to work the shit into compost and plant the seeds of our spiritual natures.

Sometimes, the voice of the higher self is compromised or drowned out by the clamoring of old memories, of excruciating feelings that are walled away within those memories. The higher self has to excavate, journey into the underworld, find those children, pull them into the light of day. Bring those memories into reality, open up the feelings and let them flow out bringing the caged creativity of the soul with them.

There are two hard questons here: (1) How do we develop the higher self; and (2) How do we get at the underworld, the sacred shit rotting away, barren?

The higher self emerges when we are silent and waiting for it. As part of spiritual practice, we need to make silent times when we simply wait, empty ourselves of all the voices and shit and see what comes to us. Another way to help it emerge is to give it a name and ask a question. When I started this blog, my higher self was called the "Big Dude;" today, I call it "GG" which is short for "Good God" as opposed to the punitive god that was forced upon me as a child. Sometime I sit and say something like, "GG, why do I feel so miserable in the early morning?" I wait and GG replies either with a kind of parable or with a therapeutic question like: "Tell me more about that misery stuff." Often, that surfaces one of the children inside and unlocks some of the hidden feelings.

Either way, I strengthen the voice of the higher self every time I practice with it. Remember that the higher self is that part of you or me that is allied with the Divine. It sees a bigger picture for me or you and sets things in motion with that in mind.

And, if we seem to fail, and live forever mired in our own sacred shit, remember this. The higher self and the Divine live in us whether we notice it or not. They love us whether we feel it or not. We cannot really fail. We cannot really fail. All of our voices and impulses, all of the sacred shit, the memories and stored feelings are of God, graces waiting to be released. A dance awaiting the music. We cannot fail. We can feel miserable every morning. Sacred shit, that's all it is. Roxie

The Alpha and the Emma Jane

Once upon a time, there was a terrier mutt roaming the streets of Atlanta. She ate out of garbage bags that landed next to dumpsters and slept under bushes in the park. She fought other dogs that tried to take her food. She slunk away from humans who might kick her or throw stones. She lost chunks of her hair from worry and, truth be told, from fighting. You could say that her life had become unmanageable . . .

One day, as she was sniffing around some dumpsters, she heard a kind voice say, "Here, doggie. Come, sweetie."

She turned to look and as quick as that, she found herself wrapped in a net and placed in the back of a truck. She was inside a small box with bars and there were other dogs also in boxes. She was in that small box for many days with occasional times when the person with the kind voice would come, attach her to a leash, and walk her around so she could pee and poop. When they would get back, there was some food and water in her cage.

At last, they seemed to come to the end of the journey. The truck stopped and this time, a big man lifted her cage with her in it and brought her into a building where there were hundreds of other animals. Emma Jane was afraid. Would she be in this cage forever? Who would take care of her? What if the other animals got loose and came after her?

The very next day, the woman with the kind voice came and picked her right up out of her cage. She was brought into a room with really bright lights and the next thing she knew she was back in her cage with things wrapped around her and a soft blanket under her. She tried to stand up but she couldn't. She fell asleep. When she woke up, someone was putting water next to her nose, so she lapped some up. She hurt all over.

That day, another person came and picked her up out of her cage, whisked her out of the buildng and placed her in another cage in the back of a car. They drove awhile and then came to a pretty house. The woman carried her, cage and all into a big room where there was another dog running loose. Immediately, Emma Jane was afraid. The woman put her cage down and opened the door. The other dog came over and sniffed. Emma Jane was shakng and looking away.

But, that turned out OK. The other dog was friendly and as Emma Jane healed from her surgery, she began to come out of her cage and inspect her environment. She thought she might be safe here. There was food and water. There was another dog to play with and there were little people who came out and petted her, taking her for long walks in a place where there were SQUIRRELS. Emma Jane pulled on her leash, shot forward to chase those critters, but was pulled back by the little people. This all went on for quite awhile and Emma Jane, the hyper vigilant stray, was starting to relax.

All too soon, the woman came out one day and put Emma back in her cage, lifted the cage and put it into her car. She took her to a big building where there were lots of animals in cages and people roaming around. There were big dogs barking and growling, cats reaching their paws through the bars as far as they could. Emma Jane turned her back on it all and curled up alone. She was very afraid.

After awhile, a strange woman said, "Let me see that one." The woman with the kind voice was there and she opened the cage and put a leash on Emma Jane, handing the leash to the stranger. They walked over to a place in the corner where the woman sat on the floor and began to pet Emma Jane. Emma Jane crawled in her lap and began to lick her face thinking maybe this is the one. All of her hair fell out, coating the stranger's clothing. The stranger took her outside for a walk and Emma Jane saw a good place to go to the bathroom. Soon, she found herself sitting in the stranger's lap in another car and finally she came to another strange house.

Would this moving around never end? Emma Jane felt totally powerless over all the things happening around her.

She was in a nice place. Her cage had a soft bed in it. She had a special place where the stranger put her food and water twice a day. She got to sit on really soft furniture right next to the stranger. Other people came to visit but they didn't take her away. One woman came in with, oh, oh, two yappy little dogs. Emma Jane backed away as far as she could, cringing next to the stranger on the sofa. One of the yappy dogs jumped right up next to the stranger and, without thinking, Emma Jane went for her throat. The stranger got really upset with her and the lady with the dogs left. The stranger put her in her cage.

Time went on and Emma Jane began to feel such a stirring of love for the stranger that it scared her. What if this woman, too, sent her away? Emma Jane became afraid of abandonment. She didn't know what to do. The next day, the woman with the yappy dogs came again but this time they were outside in the little yard where Emma Jane got to chase the squirrels. One of the yappy dogs jumped up on the stranger and HER stranger began to pet the yappy dog. Emma Jane, not knowing what jealousy or protectiveness she was feeling, lunged for the other dog's throat and this time, she held on fiercely.

The stranger pried her jaws open and then made her be prone on the ground. She put the yappy dog on a table nearby and put her foot on Emma Jane's head. This was Emma Jane's first encounter with boundaries. She knew that the dog on the table was supposed to be the Big Dog, he who must be obeyed. Eventually the woman with the yappy dogs left, but there began for Emma Jane a rigorous program of obedience training. Every day, her mistress made her sit, made her follow behind when she walked out the door, made her walk on a short leash without tugging, made her ignore the squirrels! She began to understand that her mistress was the one, She Who Must Be Obeyed.

Ever vigilant Emma Jane became serene. All she had to do to be happy was please She Who Must Be Obeyed. Now, when they went on walks, Emma Jane looked up at the woman to see what she was supposed to do. All worries vanished. She had her Alpha. She was home.

[I wrote this story after a walk with Emma Jane. I had been meditating on my own higher power and struggling with letting go and trusting the Big Dude would protect me. On this walk, I let Emma Jane off the leash and she happily took off after a squirrel. Then, she stopped, looked back at me and came back on the path. She walked along, looking at me every few minutes. When we got back to the public part of the path, I called her to me and she came with such a happy look on her face. Her tale was wagging as if being back on the leash with me was the best thing in the world. It was like she was saying, "I belong to you. I'm so glad you're my Alpha." Everything fell into place for me. Emma Jane taught me that having a higher power to tell me what to do i

s a happy place to be. She gave me a taste of serenity. Namaste, Emma Jane.) Roxie

Aurora CO and Deep Sorrow

At the midnight premiere of the new Batman movie, a shooter fired into the audience and so-far we know 15 young people are dead and 35 more are injured. This movie attracts teens, especially at the midnight launching. The shooter is in custody.

This is roughly what the press is reporting as I write this. Words like "audience" and even "shooter" make this a palatable event. Cops will tell you that one of the first things they do to emotionally handle a situation like his is to give less human titles to the individuals involved. So, we have words like victims, perpetrators, collateral damage, the body, terrorists, innocent others, and so on.

Right after I posted my condolences and prayers on Facebook, I saw a posting from Buddhagrove.com stating:

May I be the doctor
and the medicine

and may I be the nurse
for all sick beings in the world.

Whenever something horrific happens, I make an effort to remember that each person in the event no matter what his or her category is on a spiritual journey and is a child of the universe. Like so many, I am of two minds: I'm furious and want to punish the "shooter" and I'm sorrowful for the human condition and I want to make the world a better place.

I always wonder how many of us are carrying rage and anger in our hearts creating the critical mass underlying those individuals who themselves are victims of individual and collective cultural rage. Those who carry the hidden and expressed rage of the multitude sometimes become the perpetrators of unspeakable acts against others. What do I carry, hidden, in the disquiet of my heart, that contributes to the violent fabric of our nation and the world? Peace. Roxie

Walking the Dog as Spiritual Practice

Supposedly, it's good to do two things a day that you don't want to do. This builds your spiritual muscle. With an aching knee, walking the dog fits into that category for me. So, I set off with a spiritual mindset instead of my usual resentful one. "This is for my spiritual growth," say I.

I put my sweet but intense terrier on its leash, slipping her a treat as I do so ensuring that she will sit nicely instead of leaping up and taking skin off my bare legs with her doggy-clawed enthusiasm. We set off into the enormous field next to my home. The field being empty, I let her off the leash and she immediately tears off in the wrong direction. Staying spiritual, I look at the path and the trees and the sky. I feel the heat of the morning beginning to rise. Eventually, I look back and there is the doggie chomping on something she found in the grass. I call her nicely. I call her less nicely. I clap my hands several times. She looks up laconically, perceives there might be a treat in the offing and races towards me, her feet barely touching the ground. She gets to me and immediately sits as she's trained to do and looks at me all innocent and dewy-eyed, "Aren't I the best dog?" her eyes say. I give her a treat.

She tears away again, ripping towards a big tree in the middle of the field. Lots of good smells there. Do you see what an amazing spiritual practice this dog is having during this walk? She's totally in the moment. She's using all her senses to take in the scene. I, on the other hand, am in in for the spiritual discipline, right? I'm limping along. Step, pain, step, pain. I'm worrying that I'll have to have my knee replaced.

We get around the field to a "road less travelled" and I decide to go that way which, as Frost says, makes all the difference. Suddenly, I notice a swarm of butterflies. I see purple clover blossoms lining the trail. OMG, there's a buttercup straight from my childhood ramblings in the woods. Sumac stands straight as sentinels and nameless flowers grace my way.

I forget about my knee. I'm in the moment with Nature, my personal higher power. Hmph! Roxie

Who or What is "God"?

Who or what is your god? This is a question that has plagued humans from earliest recorded history. God-ness seems to be an experience as well as a concept. Some of us experience god as having a human face, some as a kind of wind, some as the lifting of a veil, some as a sudden awareness of the immediate moment, and some find god in multiple situations.

What is the experience behind the concept or name that we give divine moments? Skeptics like Karl Marx believe that we would invent god if we didn't already believe; he believes the human race needs the idea of a god almost as we need medication for pain. The Buddhists have an interesting take. They start with the idea that life is intrinsically suffering. We only see beyond our suffering through enlightenment, a kind of waking up. Christians see god in the face of Christ.

I wonder what draws ninety readers to a blog that names god a "Big Dude"? Share, if you would, in the comments field why you're here and what your concept of god or spirituality looks like. I'd be so interested.

In my own case, I have struggled since I was young with the god question. I couldn't believe in a god who invented hell so I parted with my parents' Catholic faith at about age 20. Since then, I've reinvented my concept of god hundreds of times.

This week, I was meditating and after several minutes of silent breathing, I raised my eyes and saw the trees and woods behind my house. Just like that I knew the face of my higher power or spiritual being: nature. Even as a pre-schooler, I spent hours and even entire days in the woods behind my house. I would look up at the trees making a "green cathedral" above me and I felt comfort and inspiration. I stumble over "god" at the ocean, in the mountains, in the feeling of wind on my face, in the night sky, and in the tops of trees. I can't comprehend the force or being behind the various forms that come to humans. It's my belief that the Big Dude comes to each of us in the form that we can most receive whether that is an organized religion, a newborn, a sudden hush, or the wind in the trees.

I am so grateful for the voice of the great spirit that comes to me as a wash of peace usually when I am close to nature. How does "god" come to you? Roxie