Allowing the Holy to move through us

"Out of emptiness God has made the world, it exists in the heart of God alone.  To know our place we must again become as nothing, and then what is holy will move through us and illuminate all we do."
--Jewish mystics, quoted in  After the Ecstasy, the Laundry

I find it very challenging, especially during the holiday season, to empty myself in this way: the to-do list gets really long, and begins to take over my meditation time as well as the rest of my days... which is why I need that quiet time more than ever. 

And now that I'm running my daughter's boyfriend to the ferry every morning, it's suddenly gotten much harder to find that time -- especially on days like today, when I've overslept AND I need to head off to Pilates class.  Without the meditation, it's like the day's gotten away from me before I've even begun.  And the blog definitely suffers; doesn't feel illuminated at ALL.

But these are new patterns, and over time I will learn to adjust my schedule to accommodate ferry runs and whatever else emerges.  Mostly, I'm really really thankful he's found a job; fiddling with my schedule to make that work seems a really small price to pay.  So looking at this image -- even though I shot it in San Francisco's Academy of Sciences and honestly can't remember what it is -- makes me feel that kind of relaxed floaty feeling meditation can bring.  And that will have to suffice for now.

Staring us in the face

I sometimes find it amusing that I so rarely photograph "normal" things anymore -- at least, the kinds of things people normally find beautiful: waterfront scenes, animals, boats, rural landscapes, sunsets...

I do still occasionally take pictures of such things, if they happen to show up while I'm carrying my camera.  But these days I mostly carry the camera into less obvious places, and I go with the understanding that I'm primarily looking for what calls to me -- "blog-fodder" -- something that triggers me or kick-starts my brain;  something that will speak to me if I just listen hard enough.

I love this image, shot in the Westgate Mall in downtown San Francisco.  And I've been looking at it for days, trying to find an excuse to share it with you here.  Today it finally hit me; the hook that will enable me to tie it in.

Because -- I think it's really a message about Christmas.  While we're supposed to be struggling through the dark days of advent, most of us are actually surrounded by all this artificial light.  We're out in the shopping malls, and everything sparkles and shines, and it's all about selling, about getting us to buy from the manufacturers whose names  are constantly flaunted before us.  And we think that's what Christmas is: the sparkle and the shine, the piped-in music and getting a good deal on a few designer trinkets.

But the truth is (and yes, I get that this is trite; I just think it needs to be said; we need to be reminded:)  We've got it all backwards.  It's not about the designers and the sparkles and the bright lights; it's really all about the amazing and miraculous gift that is love.  And the most miraculous part is this: that even when we get it totally backwards, it's still there, staring us in the face.

It might be big letters, or a nativity scene; a tired dad pushing twins in a stroller or the old couple holding hands on the bus. It might be in a church, a barn, or a battlefield; a shopping mall or a barrio.  But I'm sure that if you look, you'll see it; that miracle of love.

An empath's thoughts on pass-fail systems

My husband asked me yesterday what I thought of pass-fail systems (in that tone of voice that clearly indicated he thinks this is one of those stupid-is-spreading ideas and does NOT APPROVE.)  And I had to say, as a student, that I think they are wonderful -- at least for someone like me.

I have spent my entire life trying to please other people.  Especially my parents, who held success in school to be a VERY desirable thing.  And I remember my father telling me (though I'm not certain how old I was at the time) that the way to be successful in school is to figure out what the teacher wants and give it to them.  Yes, the teacher may be stupid or a jerk or whatever, but they are the ones who grade you, and you need good grades to get ahead in the world, so figure out what they want and give it to them.

I suppose the good news is I took that to heart, and as a result, was reasonably successful in school.  The bad news is that theory definitely contributed to this "work to please someone else" phenomenon that seems to be handicapping me at this point in my life.

So the truth is, having been raised in that environment, I actually find pass-fail systems utterly freeing.  I mean, I know I'm going to pass -- it's just common sense.  I show up, I do the work, I turn it in on time, and I put some thought and energy into it.

But since it's a reasonably automatic pass, I don't have to worry (beyond showing up and doing the work and putting thought and energy into it) about pleasing the teacher; about getting the citation format exactly right, or delivering the right messages, or covering all the bases.  What I DO get to worry about -- or rather, indulge myself in -- is figuring it all out: what did I actually learn?  What did I get out of this course, and where exactly did it come from?  Who said the magic words that gave me a dose of enlightenment, and what exactly WERE those words?

Do you have any idea how amazing it is to be able to approach final papers from that perspective?  I feel like I'm absolutely exploding with awareness right now; my discoveries, when I put all my notes and readings together, were SO EXCITING!  And the fact is, I'm still processing.

But in discussions last night and today, discussions that flow out of this simple question about pass-fail systems, I'm learning -- or rediscovering -- some interesting things about myself and about my view of the world, and also about how that view has both protected and handicapped me over the years.  And it's all tangled up with this idea of having to please others.  Which turns out to be a two-edged sword.

The bad part of having been raised to sense other's needs and meet them is that it can be challenging (if you are this sort of person) to figure out who YOU are and what YOU want, where YOU ends and OTHER begins. You are so busy being a mirror, reflecting others' needs, that you're not certain anything lies behind the mirror; you "pay no attention to that man behind the curtain" because you're just too busy making sure everyone else is getting what they need.

In my case this comes primarily from having a mother who needed to have the world revolve around her; from having -- in self-defense -- to anticipate all her moods and needs in order to survive.   But the good news is that this is a very useful skill: it could conceivably make me a wonderful bridge for whole communities of people, to help move them forward from now to next in a way they barely detect.  People like us are pretty unthreatening, because we never try to make folks move more than a step or two from where they are.

But what that also means, I think, is we hold the space of their being.  So when someone or something comes in that is a major disturbance WE are the ones who start vibrating, because we can feel the tension between what's coming and what is before anyone else is aware there's any change in the wind at all.  And because we feel the pain of that tension so deeply, we become sensitized to change, not so much because we're afraid of change (we may actually embrace it!) but because we know what it's going to feel like for everyone else. 

There's more, I think, to ponder about this.  But that's my thinking for this morning; for what it's worth...  and some days -- well -- it kinda makes me feel like I'm from some other planet!

Perhaps I want everything

Our next door neighbors kindly house-sat for us over Thanksgiving week -- coping with the snow and the cold and the demanding feeding schedules of our dog, cats and fish -- and as a thank you I wanted to give them some prints from the sailboat race we all watched together from our decks a month or so ago.

So my friend came over yesterday to view all the possible images I'd put in the folder for her.  She chose three, including this one, but I'm sharing this one because ... well, it was funny.  There was another picture she liked more, but the sails were red, and she wanted blue.

There was another one with blue sails that was more balanced, but the jibs were luffing and she wanted them full.  There was one with three loons in it, but it was vertical and she wanted horizontal.  And she really really wanted it to pair up nicely with another one that featured the back deck of her house with the dune grass in front of it, but in the other picture that had grass the sail boats were too tiny and far away.

So I started with the full blue jibs, took the grass from the tiny boat picture, added the loons from the vertical picture, and reversed the direction of the boats to coincide with the boat in the photo she was pairing with this one.  The wonders of photoshop: she wanted everything, and she got it!  Magic!

So it was amusing to come across this Rilke poem this morning, quoted in After the Ecstasy, the Laundry :

You see, I want a lot.

Perhaps I want everything:

the darkness that comes with every infinite fall

and the shivering blaze of every step up.

So many live on and want nothing

and are raised to the rank of prince

by the slippery ease of their light judgments.

But what you love to see are faces

that do work and feel thirst...

You have not grown old, and it is not too late

to dive into your increasing depths

where life calmly gives out its own secret.

I love that idea; that our depths are always increasing; that when we dive in, life calmly gives out its own secret; that it's never too late, and I have not grown old...  I felt all of that last night, sitting in a local restaurant, sharing conversation with a dear friend from school, and feeling possibilities expand both beneath my feet and around my heart.  It's amazing to me that the depths of discovery can still be increasing, even at my advanced age, and that in the middle of a crowded and noisy bar, while I sip a cup of decaf coffee and try to listen above the insistent twang of live country music, life can calmly -- once again -- reveal her amazing secrets.

Step into the waterfall

"When our heartfelt attention begins to separate the reality of the present from the endless waterfall of our thoughts, the world shines with a brilliant beauty.  We also begin to see how much our unnoticed interior states and unrecognized beliefs control our lives."
  -- Jack Kornfield, After the Ecstasy, the Laundry .

I love that idea, the endless waterfall of our thoughts -- it makes that constant flow seem less of an enemy; more of a constant rush and flow that can carry us to new places.  It makes it less muddy, more something to stand in and peer through to the hidden treasures; the rocks that glisten beneath, the caves still to be explored -- if we're willing to step through to the other side.

I'm not sure I understood, when I began meditation practice, that it would not only help me to find those quiet peaceful caves inside; that it would also reveal those -- often unpleasant, and hard to love -- patterns that so color our perceptions.  At first I remember being horrified to watch where my mind went: it was so often selfish, anxious, or angry; eager to please and impress...

But with time I've learned to be patient with that, to accept the inevitable failings, to watch for projections, to be wary of assumptions, and to look through and beyond the relentless flow of ego to the treasure and the tenderness that wait, open and vulnerable, still hopeful and longing, beneath the cynicism and occasional despair.

Because the truth is that you have to be willing to step into the waterfall, walk through the cold and the tears and the occasional terror, if you want to see beyond it to the open, aching heart that lies beneath.

The hunger, the longing, and the light

"Our hearts shine in the same way as the fireflies, with the same light as the sun and the moon.  Within us is a secret longing to remember this light, to step out of time, to feel our true place in this dancing world.  It's where we began and where we return."
  -- Jack Kornfield, After the Ecstasy, the Laundry

This particular Kornfield book has been sitting on my shelf, unread, for years.  I remember buying it because it was recommended to me, and because I loved the title (so like my life!) but I was never able to get into it.

But when I finished with 365 Nirvana, I went to my bookshelf, planning to reread one of my favorite inspirational texts, and found this one jumping out at me.  And as I read, I can't quite see why I never got into it before; it seems perfect for where I am now.

So much of life seems to be about timing and readiness, doesn't it?  So many things seem to happen that we only come to understand years later; so many people cross our paths with gifts we only learn to unwrap years after they have passed on...

But that light that shines in our hearts seems to have a way of persisting, even through the darkest of nights, and then, suddenly, when we least expect it, it seems to sparkle forth again...

In a way, I think, that's what Advent is all about: sitting in the darkness, waiting and trusting that somehow the light is still there, and will return.  And I find it very amusing that, without my even being aware of it, the Advent consciousness is seeping into my reading, my photo choices, and my thoughts.  Is it years of programming?  Or is it just the natural cycle of events; that as the days grow shorter and shorter we find ourselves hungering for the light?

I'm not sure what the answer is, but then -- I'm not sure it really matters.  What matters is the hunger, and the longing... and the light.

Plan, but trust the emergence

It takes a lot of planning to create a bridge.  It takes a lot of planning to get through life, as well.  And the more people involved, the more complex the process.

But sometimes, well, life just gets in the way of plans.  We've had a lot of that in our house, over the past 24 hours.  I had a presentation to give yesterday; something I was to be paid for as part of the offerings of our local arts community.  I spent some time planning it, and then had to call it off; I was just too dizzy, and exhausted as well, so I spent the afternoon sleeping. Which was a good decision, as it turns out -- I'm definitely feeling better this morning.

Our daughter was to come over this morning to join me on my Thursday morning coffee date, but she just called to say she needs to sleep in -- which will complicate things later in the day.  My husband was planning to join us as well, but he lost sleep last night, so he, too, will be sleeping in -- and then taking the car into Seattle, which will make things tricky for the Seattle daughter, who will need a car when she comes over.  And our other daughter has a doctor's appointment around the same time the Seattle daughter comes over... it's all a little confusing. 

But it will also all work out.  Which is kind of true across the board, with life.  Things get complicated and confusing; some things get dropped, plans change, people accommodate, and eventually everything works out.  Maybe not quite the way we planned it, but it will work out.  And things are infinitely easier if we can just learn to trust that. 

I keep thinking of the last slide from my last class of the term, which is all about acceptance.  It emerges out of Open Space Technology, and goes something like this:

Whoever shows up are the right people
Whenever it starts is the right time
Whatever happens is the only thing that could have happened, and
When it's over, it's over.  

... which seems to me to be all about trust -- trusting that what needs to emerge will emerge.  I don't actually think it works all that well for bridges.  But for meetings, and for daily life -- well, at least it's reassuring.  And if things aren't going quite the way you'd hoped,  OST has another great rule that may work equally well:

The Law of Two Feet

If at any time you find yourself in any situation where you are neither learning nor contributing: use your two feet and go someplace else.

I'm not sure I agree with this one; it goes against my instincts around loyalty and commitment, and seems a little New-Agey.  But it's certainly something to think about.  Does it flow inevitably out of that kind of acceptance?  I'm not sure...