Choosing dedication

A couple of days ago I was wondering about my motives for going back to school, so I particularly appreciated this passage from Roger Walsh's Essential Spirituality this morning:

"Each time I sit down to write this book I try to remember to dedicate it to the welfare of all the people who read it. In this way I hope that my selfish motives, such as the desire for fame and recognition, are reduced, while care and concern for others are enhanced."

Tibetan Buddhists, Walsh says, start and end every major activity by dedicating their practice to their own awakening, that it may serve and awaken all beings. Which means I can follow that example, and -- assuming I am accepted into this program -- I can choose to dedicate my time in it in the same fashion.

Funny. I dedicated this blog on the day of its inception, and that's done a lovely job of keeping me on track. I dedicate my daily meditation practice. You'd think I'd have realized that could carry over into this new journey. I suspect that my momentary lapse and Walsh's timely passage are serving as a gentle reminder that this decision is not a step back onto an old path, not a choice to indulge my brain for a while instead of my heart and soul but rather an opportunity for integration of old and new, brain, heart and soul. By dedicating my work I hope to ensure that the path stays true.

I started to write "One can only hope." But of course, it's not just about hope, it's also about choice, and action. And so I choose.

And it's all good.

Sharing the cup of life

Normally I work on my photographic creations in the afternoons, but yesterday I was feeling kinda sleepy, and ended up spending the afternoon sitting in my living room and chatting with my daughter.

We ended up sharing a long conversation about the Enneagram, and I eventually got out one of the more amusing books on the subject, The Enneagram Made Easy, which led to lots of shared observations and chuckling about our own foibles and those of our family.

So I didn't get around to creating something new until this morning, and though I had read some wonderful deep stuff that I had intended to share with you, when I got to the images and started playing this is what emerged. There were many points along the path of its creation where I might have stopped, but for some reason I just kept going. And though this end result doesn't feel like great art to me I LOVE the sheer dancing joy of it.

So instead of filling this space with pithy and serious observations I think I'll just let this piece speak for itself, and encourage you to do something today that reveals your inner joy. You just gotta love yourself!

Oh -- and just so you know, this is the original from which the image above arose... go figure!

Moving toward or away from integration

"Some artists paint or photograph the same subject many, many times, intentionally challenging themselves to represent it in new ways. This in-depth exploration of a single subject can be both demanding and rewarding, forcing the artist to explore nuances and subtleties that the first few visits fail to elicit."

-- Bob Cornelis, on his Art Blog

Given that I've been doing variations on this curious body/torso theme for a couple of months now, you can imagine that I found the observation above reassuring: just because I've done this once doesn't mean I can't do it again, continue exploring this theme.

But what intrigues me today is that these images are, for the most part, headless -- and therefore brainless. And it occurs to me that there's been a slight flaw in my spirituality of late: though I openly strive for integration and oneness with the rest of creation, I have made my own brain -- specifically, the monkey mind that interferes with my meditation practice -- a kind of enemy. Perhaps these images have been a way of exploring that and helping me to see what's been missing?

I first began to wonder about this when I began telling people about my plans to go to grad school. They'd ask what subject, and I'd answer "Organizational Development" and I could see their eyes begin to glaze over. And seeing that took me back to all those uncomfortable times in my childhood when my brains got in the way; when I was dropped into that box reserved for "the brainy ones" and otherwise ignored, chosen last, and shunned by my classmates.

Once I understood that this was the reason I was reacting to the glazing, I couldn't help but notice that one of the reasons I'm so excited about the program is that it will allow me to exercise my left brain again. But is that all there is to it?

I had thought that my excitement was arising from my true self, this feeling I have that this is the work I was born to do; that the happiness was flowing out of a sense that I was honoring my real self; integrating brain work and heart work. But could it be that what's really going on here is that I am excited to be moving back into a space where I might be able to earn money again, might be able to have prestige or power again? Because those are powerful motivators. Could it really be a sort of egoic triumph that's operating here?

I am of course hoping these petty motives have nothing to do with it -- or at least that they are not the prime motivators. But the fact is that desire and attachment are sometimes difficult to separate, and I will need to be sure that the longing to pursue this course stems from an overflowing of true self, a longing to give back, rather than from some sense of inner deficiency, of not being or having enough. And those, of course, are always good questions to ask in ANY decisions we make.

Growing pains

"Surprisingly, we fear our potential greatness almost as much as our present weakness... fear that if we grew into our greatness we would be very different people...all would be new and unfamiliar because real growth involves movement from the known into the unknown. We would have to give up our old familiar myths and stories... to die to one story, one myth, in order to be reborn to a larger one."

-- Roger Walsh, Essential Spirituality

Driving home after my interview yesterday, I had this curious sense that I was about to explode; that something great within me was about to burst its bonds and come into being. It wasn't exactly a comfortable feeling -- a little exciting, a little scary -- and some other part of me was working overtime to tame it, to loosen those bonds enough to allow the greatness to expand without breaking anything -- mostly by intellectualizing the experience; essentially "talking me down."

So when I saw this quote this morning, there was a sense of recognition, and a bit of wonder: how many times in my life have I had the chance to be more, and, out of false modesty or fear of rejection tamped it down, reduced the voltage, pulled back, afraid of overwhelming myself and others with the magnitude?

When I looked for an image to illustrate that, this one -- taken Sunday, just before we boarded the ferry to come home from Shaw -- leaped up. I had taken it for the colors, but now, looking at it, it had that swelling, bursting of bonds, and at the same time tied-down feeling. But of course it's not exploding at all -- it's just a life jacket: well-used, to be sure, but designed expressly to keep us afloat when we go overboard.

It's okay, I see now; it's all okay: the sense of something new coming, the excitement, the anxiety, the gentle damping down -- it's all a part of the buoyancy that comes when the spirit is moving and the winds are blowing and the boat is starting to rock. We have some time-tested responses that keep us balanced, and if, as we age, we continue to grow, it makes sense that we'll have to loosen those bonds a little.

And -- just as an aside -- I find it really interesting, that this quote, especially the parts at the end, about dying to be reborn, so closely mirrors the themes in yesterday's poem, which was written before I left for the interview. Which amuses me because I struggled with the pronouns in the poem, couldn't figure out who I was saying goodbye/farewell to: was it a guy? Was it a girl, a child? And now I see that there's another option: maybe I'm saying goodbye to another phase in my own life.

And it's all good.

When life gives you lemons...

We've all heard that old saying: If life hands you lemons, make lemonade. But what exactly does that mean? Is it just that we should make the best of a bad situation?

I went in today for my grad school interview, and part of my task was to read two paragraphs and write an essay in response. The two paragraphs listed a series of possible responses to situations where things don't quite go as expected.

The first response was just to assume it was just some sort of odd occurrence, and forget about it. The second was to take some time to reflect on the situation -- either at the time or later -- and the third was to simultaneously reflect and act; to notice what was happening and make some sort of smooth and appropriate shift.

That last choice reminded me, for some reason, of failed attempts to converse with cute boys when I was younger, and my usual inability to respond smoothly and appropriately to any conversational openings that arose: mostly I just froze and stammered. And I think, somehow, that my early failures in that arena must be what led me to assume -- for the sake of my essay, at least -- that the last choice is the most desirable choice, which then of course could be interpreted to imply that the other two are weak or lazy responses.

But of course each response can be valid in certain situations. For example, no tried and true technique for ANYthing is ALways going to work, so there are probably lots of instances where a minor failure can be ignored and you can just move on, and, in fact, you can create problems unnecessarily by stewing over a perfectly normal glitch. And, nice as it would be to be totally responsive in a given situation, if you don't do some reflecting on it afterwards, take time to figure out exactly what might have gone wrong, you increase your chances of having it happen again -- and again having to respond on the fly.

So in addition to knowing how to reflect, how to respond quickly, and knowing how to just "stuff things under the rug," we need to know WHEN each of these options might be appropriate. Or, to stick with our initial metaphor, maybe you don't always need to make lemonade. Sometimes it might be more appropriate to toss out those lemons and go buy the oranges you wanted in the first place. And sometimes it might be good to sit and stew a bit about what you might have done differently in the first place to avoid being handed lemons at all. Maybe making lemonade is a good thing. But each is a reasonable option, in its own time.

And it's all good.

Comfort in a drainspout

On our way home from Shaw yesterday we took a small detour -- despite our daughter's protests -- to see what was going on in the shipyard at the end of Commercial Avenue. I got some more lovely rusty boat shots, and, on the way out, this photo of a clever downspout on the side of a warehouse.

I always wonder when I see art in such unexpected places. Whose idea was it to put it there? Who paid for it? Why there? Why not someplace more public, where more people could see and appreciate the creativity and whimsicality of it?

But that's my brain speaking. My soul has a different response altogether: a sort of soaring feeling of recognition. Not the kind of recognition you get when you pass by a mirror and catch sight of yourself reflected there, or, in the course of a conversation, when you find illuminations in the self-truths reflected in another's thoughts and feelings.

This recognition goes beyond the self-referential to some other plane, and rejoices in the brilliance of the creative spirit, finding hope and encouragement in the discovery that there can -- in a world where everything inventable seems to have already been invented -- still be that spark of genius and originality, and that it can flourish in the oddest of places.

It feels like a reminder of that sense that led me to faith in the first place, that there is Something beyond me that is wiser and more wonderful and more creative than I could ever be -- and I take great comfort from that.

The best-laid plans...

I was excited about flying down to California to meet my daughter; excited also to have the chance to drive back across country I'd never seen. And so I packed my trusty camera, eager to see what images it might gather to share with you here.

But as we realized how far we had to go, and how short a time we had to accomplish our travel goals, plans changed. And so, instead of spending the night with friends in Alameda, we shared an early dinner and hit the road.

My daughter had already been driving all day, so I took the first shift, and drove until dark; no picture-taking for me! At sunset we were driving through a lovely valley, and rejoiced together in the contrast between the pinks and purples of the sky and the bright chartreuse of the vegetation below. But no photos.

And then, of course, it was dark, and cold. We drove on, through the gorgeous mountains of northern California, climbing higher and higher into the snow and wind, and rejoiced together when the half moon rose and made the snow glow dimly to outline the passing hills. But no photos.

At 1 a.m. we called it a night and crawled into bed for a dreamless sleep. Rising again at 7 to grab a cup of hotel coffee, I went back to the room and woke my daughter long enough for her to shower; she was asleep again not long after climbing into the passenger seat, and I drove through the mountains of southern Oregon, rejoicing alone in the bright greens of the passing hills.

By the time she was awake and ready to drive, we'd pretty much come to the flatlands, and before long it was familiar territory, farms and fields I'd driven by before. And so, though I had my camera ready, there wasn't much to shoot. This is one of the few good ones we got, and I think actually she was the one who shot it, after I pointed it out and begged, at the tail end of my morning shift that second day.

So, no, it didn't turn out the way I planned -- and I could feel some childish part of me wanting to stamp her feet and whine. But in fact, for the chance to travel with my girl and listen to her tales of adventure and hold her hand while she mourned its coming end -- I'd do it all again in exactly the same way. Those hills will still be there when I get a chance to drive through there again. But she, I suspect, will never be the same: last night she came to me, now in full throes of her transition time, and said, holding me so tight, "Oh, mom. I feel so lost." I can only hold her and weep with her.

And now, today, we'll hit the road again, this time in a more comfortable car, with my husband driving; off to the islands for a very sad memorial service. A different sort of journey, celebrating -- and mourning -- a different sort of transition -- and in many ways a fitting beginning for this strange new chapter in all our lives. Who knows how it will all end; I am simply grateful we'll be traveling together, and trust that all will eventually become clear.