Love is the mother

"Love is the mother.
We are her children.
She shines inside us, visible-invisible,
as we lose trust
or feel it start to grow again." (Rumi)

I found this quotation this morning and loved it; I really have nothing to add -- except the image, of course, which was created in response. It is a compilation of three images: a Buddha from Taliesin, Frank Lloyd Wright's estate outside Phoenix; some glassware in a restaurant in Taiwan, and lights at night in the Seattle ferry terminal parking lot.
There is beauty everywhere.

Getting un-stuck for Lent

Lent has always felt a bit like death to me, a sinking feeling, a time to revisit or awaken regrets and longings, fears and losses. It's so easy to focus on what's wrong in our lives, to dwell on our shortcomings, to become obsessed with wanting the goodies we've given up or complaining about the disciplines we've taken on as punishment for our mistakes and foolishness.

But Lent doesn't need to be all about shame and condemnation. What it's really about is examining and discovering what comes between us and the Divine Source for which we hunger. What comes between might actually BE that sense of shame and condemnation: what if THAT were what we chose to give up for Lent? When did we decide that Lent was about doing stuff that would make us resent the church and God?

What if, instead of wallowing in sinfulness, grief and pain, we were to resolve to write down, every day, 5 gifts we're grateful for? What if, instead of giving up the fun things that feed us -- sweets, or chocolate, or french fries -- we were to take on another thing that feeds a different part of us: to read an uplifting book, or take a daily walk in the park, or add some meditation time? What if, instead of giving up something we love, we looked around our cluttered lives and gave up something -- every day -- that we DON'T love anymore, something that might enrich some other person's life?

What if, when -- as inevitably seems to happen for me -- that whiff of failure starts to fill our nostrils, we stop and sniff, then breathe it out; imagine she who breathes is a small sad child, and give her a hug of forgiveness and blessing. What if Lent is really about letting go of the "stuff" that bubbles up and filling our lungs with the rich scent of Divine Love?

What if, instead of standing here, staring at these gloomy skulls, I leave this still marble courtyard and choose instead to climb the stairs, to follow that mysterious robe that's leading me to some art-filled inner chamber? What if Lent is just about getting un-stuck?

What are we learning from this?

"Nothing ever goes away until it has taught us what we need to know." -- Pema Chodron

I ran across this quotation in my reading this morning, and it really struck me -- perhaps because it ties in so beautifully with my last two posts. I was thinking of it more in the context of the trials and tribulations we carry around with us and complain about -- the bad back, the depression, the troublesome children or difficult marriage -- but then, when I went looking for an image this one just leaped off the page.

Of course! This tendency we have to demonize the banks for our economic crisis! So easy, to attack those ridiculously wealthy corporate CEO's. But at heart we ALL are realizing that on a variety of levels (and isn't this Lent kicking in) we, too, have been profligate spenders, not just of money, but of time and energy as well.

Not that this excuses us, but I've been thinking about where this behavior comes from, and I find myself wondering if it's not just the "me generation" thing, or the "if you've got it, flaunt it" thing, or the "if it feels good, do it" thing. Because what I remember about growing up is that money was always tight, economies were always practiced, string, and rubber bands, and saran wrap were always saved... and it seemed incredibly foolish to do that (to me) when we also lived under the constant threat of nuclear annihilation, and then, later, of the seemingly endless war in Viet Nam.

I distinctly remember conversations with my first husband (we married in 1971), in which we agreed not to have children because there would be no world for them to inherit. Again, I'm not saying this excuses us. But I also remember being in high school when the Time Magazine cover read "Is God Dead?" I think, as a generation, we lost hope. And if there was no future to speak of, why save for it -- it might be that all we have is now.

So how appropriate, that we now have a president who is younger than we are, who campaigned on a platform based on hope, whose acts since taking office consistently throw off the old separatist ways of doing things and stress the importance of working together and supporting one another. The pendulum is swinging back now, I think, and though our children will have to struggle, I like to believe it will be a different kind of struggle, informed by some of the foolish mistakes their parents made.

But I digress. My question for you today is this: what bugs you the most? What is driving you crazy? Okay. Now think long and hard about this one. What does it have to teach you? Because, like this economic crisis, the challenges we face are just not going away until we learn what we need to learn from them.

Teachers everywhere

Though I have come, over the years, to think of myself as a Christian, I believe wholeheartedly that there are profound truths in all the great spiritual practices. As Freeman says in Jesus, the Teacher Within, "Tasting the word in other traditions returns us to the gospels with a finer palate for truth."

And, in fact, I think there are teachers everywhere, not just in the spiritual disciplines. Much of what I have learned comes from my interactions with my friends and family, from visiting unfamiliar places and experiencing new and different paths. My older daughter, who is majoring in Chinese religion and culture, sent me a quotation from Confucius yesterday which perfectly encapsulates this view of life.

"When I walk along with two others, they may serve me as my teachers. I will select their good qualities and follow them, their bad qualities and avoid them." (from the 22nd part of the Shu Er section in the Analects.)

I have not gotten the impression from my readings that Frank Lloyd Wright was either a particularly spiritual man or a particularly nice man, but he was certainly a gifted man. And, as this statue from his Taliesin estate outside Phoenix shows, he was certainly capable of tapping into the peace and beauty that exists around us.

As we struggle to expand our compassion for all of humanity, our sense that we are all connected and one in God, it might help to remember that there are teachers everywhere. And I, for one, know that I still have a great deal to learn from them -- even from my kids!

Facing into the wind

This handsome heron was enjoying the breeze on my roof yesterday; don't you just love the way those long thin feathers blow in the wind?

The wind is blowing lots of interesting things my way this week, and I'm having a little difficulty figuring out what to act on and what to let ride -- or fly, as the case may be!

That's the amazing thing about Lent: it forces you to face into the wind and try to hold your balance while getting hit with some of the really hard stuff, the shadow stuff, the things you wish you didn't know about yourself. But out of that wrestling ALWAYS comes growth, and possibility; interesting shifts in perspective, new ideas and approaches... it's all very productive, even if it can be difficult and painful.

So the question for me today, which I invite you to do your own wrestling with, is this: As you examine your heart, with the same intensity and suspicion that this heron shows watching me and my camera, what's the part of your emotional/psychological/spiritual makeup that you like the least? And how could you turn that around and, combining it somehow with your god-given talents, make it work for good?

I'm still working on this question, but I got some good -- and surprising -- possibilities today; hope you do, too!

Walking through Lent

When spring is just around the corner, winter can seem like an endless trudge up a long slow hill. We continue to don our parkas and boots even as the days grow longer and the mornings lighter, and wonder if we'll ever be warm again, if the school year will ever come to an end, if the economy will ever recover...

Some things are seasonal, of course, but other kinds of darkness, those of our own making, the cost of our own greed or self-absorption -- it's harder to trust that those, too, might be seasonal; that those, too, might eventually find redemption; might eventually end in resurrection, new life, rebirth, hope. Of course there WAS an Easter -- but can there be an Easter for US?

I love the way these branches, laden with snow, reach out for the children: it feels tender to me, and hopeful, like the light beginning to warm the road behind them. But it is Lent, after all, and there are days when I am the child in red, barely able to lift one foot to put it in front of the other.

Holy in the Ordinary

There's a show called ART coming up at our local theater; it's about a man who buys a painting that's all white. "Is it," the promotional materials ask, "because he understands the intrinsic value of art…or is he just plain gullible?" To celebrate the play, our local gallery has asked several artists to produce white paintings, which will be hung in the lobby of the theater for the duration of the play.

My friend Vicky Harrison (click here for her website) was invited to do one of the white paintings, and I went over to her studio a few days ago to see the piece she had created. I really liked it: it had some wonderful elements -- different shades of white, big swirls of white moving horizontally across the lower third, some vaguely eastern looking characters in white marching down the left side... it was playful, and balanced, intriguing, and very very... well... WHITE!

And it made me think, as does this boat, of how often language, even a single word, contains so much possibility. As I look at this boat, I think you would agree with me that it is white. The oar, too, is white, though a different shade of white. Even that dark rope could be described as red and white striped. And yet, if I hadn't shown you this picture, if I just said I had taken a photograph of a white dinghy, a white oar, and a red and white-striped rope, you might have visualized something completely different -- and probably something quite a bit tidier than this, more freshly painted, newer looking.

I do actually have a photograph of a white dinghy that's in much better shape than this one, very freshly painted. It even has white oars, and a white rope, onto which I could easily paint some red stripes. But somehow I like this one better. I think that's because this boat isn't perfect. Like me, it's obviously aged, it has some wear. But it's still floating, a solid, practical functional vehicle, ready to serve again. And my favorite part is the way the oar has been worn down from the oarlock, and the way the bluish tones of that slightly narrower section of the oar reflect the bluish tones of the water. It's like a harbinger of the impermanence of our creations, that all we are and do will eventually return to the key elements, to earth, or water; to air, or fire.

Like language, like the things we create, like our lives, like each moment, this worn oar carries within it the memory of the past, the look of the present, the promise of the future, and all the symbolism invested in it by the observer. Like the oar, or the word white, each of us, and all that surrounds us, is rich -- even holy -- with memory, meaning, presence and promise. And we get to see and rejoice in it all -- if we just take the time to pay attention.